/ 


GATHERED  LEAVES : 


OR 


MISCELLANEOUS    PAPERS 


BY 

MISS  HANNAH  F.  GOULD 


'  And  in  each  branch  there  was  a  budding  gem, 
And  in  each  gem  there  was  a  hidden  stem, 
And  in  each  stem,  a  leafy  diadem. 
And  every  branch  of  that  prophetic  tree 
Was  emblem  of  some  mightier  mystery.' 

THE  MOUITTAIW  HOMK 


BOSTON: 
WILLIAM    J.    KEYNOLDS, 

20    CORNHILL. 
1846. 


10AN  STACK 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1845,  by 

BY   MISS  H.  F.  GOULD, 
In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Boston: 

Printed  by  S.  N.  Dickinson  &  Cc 
52  Washington  St. 


752 


Q 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

INTRODUCTION, 5 

PITY,  .    . 7 

THE  GRAVE  BENEATH  THE  THORN-TREE, 17 

THE  PAINTER'S  LAST  TOUCH, 54 

THE  BROKEN  PRISM, 82 

THE  OLD  ELM  OP  LEXINGTON, 86 

THE  HAUNTED  FOREST,      100 

THE  GRAVE  or  L.  E.  L 120 

THE  CEMETERY  OP  THE  EAST,  MONT  Louis, 

OR  PERE  LA  CHAISE, 124 

THE  CHRISTIAN  SOLDIER; 147 

SAINT  ROSALIA,      .    .    .    ,    , 157 


958 


4  CONTENTS. 

THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  LEAVES,     .    .    .    .    .'..;,    .  185 

THE  SISTER  THERESE, 191 

BLANCHE  AND  ISABEL, 203 

LANCASTER,     .     '.  f.  _  .   '.'    .V.    ".';.' .  251 

ST.  BERNARD, 260 

THE  HUMMING-BIRD. 284 

THE  LINDEN  LEAF, 298 

THE  SARRACENIA  PURPUREA, .  301 


INTRODUCTION. 


'GATHERED  LEAVES!'  said  a  friend,  on  hear 
ing  the  title  of  the  present  volume ;  '  What  kind 
of  leaves  do  you  mean  —  those  of  trees  and 
flowers,  or  written  leaves  ?  '. 

'  Just  that  kind  which  your  taste  and  imagina 
tion  may  dictate,  as  most  likely  to  be  acceptable 
and  useful  to  you,'  I  replied. 

I  would  now  propose  the  same  freedom  of 
interpretation  to  each  inquirer  under  whose  no 
tice  the  work  may  fall.  There  is,  however,  one 
sense  in  which  I  would  be  more  explicit,  lest 
it  be  taken  for  mere  compilation.  Most  of  what 
constitutes  the  following  pages,  is  now  published 
for  the  first  time. 

A  few,  and  only  a  few,  of  the  articles  have 
appeared  in  type  before.  And  these  were  re 
ceived  in  a  manner  to  encourage  the  belief,  that 
they  would  be  welcomed  in  a  form  more  perma 
nent  than  that  of  fugitive,  papers.  To  the  reader, 


b  INTRODUCTION. 

the  contents  will  show  how  they  were  gathered ; 
that  is,  at  different  times,  in  various  moods,  and 
their  subject  matter,  from  scenes  widely  separate. 
Farther  than  what  seems  needful  explanation, 
I  dislike  preface.  To  a  good  book  it  is  super 
fluous  ;  a  bad  one  should  not  be ;  and,  to  a  dull 
one,  prefatory  apology  can  only  add  dullness,  and 
the  kind  of  merit  thus  implied : 

'  The  modest  speaker  is  ashamed  and  grieved 
To  engross  a  moment's  notice  5  and  yet  begs  — 
Begs  a  propitious  ear  to  his  poor  thoughts, 
However  trivial  all  that  he  conceives. 
Sweet  bashfulness  ;  it  claims  at  least  this  praise  — 
The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sense 
That  it  foretells  us,  always  comes  to  pass.' 

H.  F.  G. 


PITY 


ANNA  had  strayed  from  her  companions  while 
making  an  excursion.  She  was  walking  alone 
by  the  wild  sea-side,  on  an  uninhabited  island, 
contemplating  the  unmarred,  primal  beauty  and 
magnificence  of  the  scene. 

There  lay  the  restless,  mysterious,  never- 
silent,  everlasting  ocean  —  rolling,  roaring  and 
foaming  before  her,  unfathomed  and  trackless 
as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  when  the  waters 
were  gathered  together  and  called  seas,  and  the 
dry  land  appeared.  And  over  it  hung  the  glo 
rious  firmament,  unfaded  by  time,  untouched 
by  decay,  and  unmarked  by  the  spoiling  hand 
of  art,  as  at  first,  when  He,  who  <  sitteth  on  the 
circle  of  the  heavens,'  made  the  two  great 
lights,  and  the  stars  also,  and  set  them  there. 
Not  the  note  of  a  bird,  nor  the  hum  of  an 
insect,  was  heard  in  contrast  to  the  voice  of  the 


PITY. 


waters  ;  nor  was  the  wing  of  either  seen  lifted, 
as  a  speck,  beneath  the  cerulean  vault. 

On  that  lonely  shore,  where  Anna  walked, 
there  was  no  lirm  gravelly  beach,  no  hard  peb 
bly  strand,  whereon  she  might  loiter ;  nor  rock 
beneath  whose  shadow  she  could  rest,  to  sur 
vey  and  meditate  on  the  view.  Her  foot  sunk 
at  every  step,  in  a  wide  bed  of  loose  reddish 
sand,  that  hemmed  in  the  waves,  and  spread 
back  to  the  distance,  where  it  was  abruptly  ter 
minated  and  walled  by  a  high  bank,  mainly  of 
the  same  unstable  earth,  plumed  at  its  height 
with  a  few  scattered  tufts  of  long,  coarse  grass 
and  stinted  shrubs,  that  waved  in  the  wind 
against  the  blue  sky. 

Musing  as  she  went,  on  the  grandeur  of  the 
ocean  and  the  solitude  of  the  shore,  Anna  per 
ceived,  close  to  the  water's  edge,  and  almost 
beneath  her  falling  foot,  a  little  lonely  traveller, 
heavy-laden,  and  apparently  far  from  home ; 
all  unconscious  of  its  danger  from  the  next 
wave,  diligently  pursuing  its  way,  as  if  confi 
dent  that  the  mighty  element  would  respect  its 
impotence,  and  hastening  on  to  some  impor 
tant  end.  It  was  but  a  lowly  one,  with  name 
unhonored,  arid  in  presence  spurned  by  man  — 


PITY.  9 

a  solitary  caterpillar,  .that  the  wind  had  whirled 
down  from  its  native  tuft  of  herbage  on  the 
bank,  and  sprinkled  the  coarse  grains  of  sand 
upon  its  back,  till  the  weight  was  as  much  as  it 
could  bear,  and  run  beneath  it,  while  speeding 
forward  it  knew  not  whither. 

'  Poor  thing ! '  said  Anna,  ;  thy  helplessness 
and  the  danger  thou  art  in  give  thee  an  impor 
tance,  which  else  thou  hadst  never  possessed. 
Thou  art  but  a  worm,  yet  not  without  a  pur 
pose,  since  thou  art  here,  a  little  well-finished 
motive  part  in  the  grand  system  —  the  univer 
sal  plan  of  the  great  Designer  and  Maker  of 
all.  Nor  art  thou,  all  feeble  as  thou  art,  and 
insignificant  as  thou  mayst  seem,  without  thy 
power,  being  able  to  touch  the  human  heart 
and  awaken  its  compassion.  And  thus  mak 
ing  the  most  of  thy  time  and  strength,  and  the 
least  of  thy  burden,  thou  hast  in  a  moment 
given  me  a  lesson  which  a  philosopher  could 
not  have  taught.  Yet,  at  the  touch  of  the  com 
ing  wave,  thou  wouldst  cease  to  be  even  a 
caterpillar.  It  would  quench  thy  minute  spark 
of  life,  and  give  the  rest  of  thee  to  some  hun 
gry  little  child  of  the  sea.  My  lifted  foot  had 
well  nigh  crushed  thee  out  of  being ;  and 


10  PITY. 

shouldst  thou  attempt  to  reach  thy  distant  home 
on  the  height,  by  crossing  this  Sahara,  the 
wind  would  bury  thee  alive  in  the  sand,  as  it 
sometimes  does  the  camel  in  the  desert,  and 
leave  thee  to  perish  alone  in  an  unknown 
grave.  Thus,  from  three  points  at  once  has 
death  aimed  at  thee,  whilst  thou,  all  uncon 
scious  of  the  perils  that  beset  thee,  dost  still, 
patient  and  untiring,  hold  on  thy  way  thou 
knowest  not  whither.  Thy  home  in  the  rough 
herbage  is  but  a  poor  one  ;  still  it  is  thy  home, 
and  as  such,  dear  to  thee.  Thy  life  may  be 
nought  to  any  other  creature,  yet  it  is  thy  life  ~ 
as  great  perhaps  to  thee  as  mine  to  me ;  and  it 
would  in  nowise  avail  me  to  look  on  and  see 
it  destroyed  ;  —  it  will  cost  me  nothing  to  save 
thee.  And  though  in  thy  littleness  thou  mayst 
be  of  no  farther  use  in  this  immensity,  thou 
wilt  at  least  have  secured  to  me  one  honey- 
drop  in  earth's  wilderness  —  the  sweet  indul 
gence  of  a  feeling  of  mercy  and  compassion, 
free  from  the  under-motive  of  hope  in  a  reward 
to  follow.  For,  the  act  is  in  behalf  of  an  hum 
ble  worm,  that  hath  no  favor  to  show,  no 
recompense  to  bestow,  no  voice  to  thank  me, 
or  to  sound  my  praise  abroad.  And  now  I 


PITY.  11 

will  make  thee   a  life-boat  of  this  little  pearly 
shell,  and  restore  thee  to  safety.' 

She  took  up  the  white  shell  from  among  the 
brown  sand,  and,  sliding  it  under  the  feet  of 
the  caterpillar,  raised  him  from  his  perilous 
course,  and  carried  him  up  the  bank  to  his 
knot  of  grass  ;  where,  relieved  of  his  scattered 
burden,  he  walked,  or  rested  on  the  green  airy 
blade,  with  the  seeming  delight  of  an  exile  re 
turned  to  his  country  and  his  home. 

In  doing  this,  Anna  fancied  that  she  heard  a 
voice,  yet  she  saw  no  speaker.  She  looked 
forward,  but  he  was  not  there ;  and  backward, 
but  she  could  not  perceive  him.  She  beheld 
him  not  on  the  waters,  she  saw  him  not  on  the 
land.  Then,  said  she,  <  It  is  a  spirit !  the  angel 
of  Him  who,  unseen,  fills  all  space ! '  And 
the  voice  spake :  t  Sweet  is  compassion  in  its 
after-uses,  as  well  as  in  its  present  indulgence. 
Rich  is  the  reward  it  returns  into  the  bosom 
whence  it  proceeds.  Every  act  of  it  shall  en 
large  the  capacity  of  that  bosom  to  enjoy ;  and 
its  enjoyment,  increase  the  desire  and  the  habit 
of  repeating  them.  The  object  of  its  exercise 
may  be  small,  and  of  no  moment ;  but  the  exer 
cise  will  revert  to  the  agent  in  effects  great  and 


12  PITY. 

blessed.  The  heart,  whence  the  holy  waters  of 
pity  and  benevolence  flow,  may  find  that,  like 
the  new-opened  fountain  in  its  first  free  gush, 
they  leap  forward,  repelling  and  throwing  out. 
the  fragments  of  the  rock  that  was  broken  for 
their  release.  But  afterwards,  they  will  well 
up  sweet  and  clear,  and  play  off  in  streams  re 
freshing  and  beautifying  to  all  around  it,  and 
whatsoever  they  may  reach  ! ' 

It  is  now  a  sultry  summer's  day,  and  not 
long  since  Anna's  solitary  walk  on  the  strand. 
A  pleasure-boat  is  seen  gliding  smoothly  down 
the  blue  bosom  of  the  stream  that  is  lost  in  the 
open  ocean,  near  that  sandy  island.  It  shoots 
out  at  the  mouth  of  the  river,  and  dances  off 
upon  the  sparkling  billows  of  the  briny  deep, 
like  a  careless  sea-gull,  with  its  white  sail  filled 
by  the  breeze  and  flashing  to  the  sun,  as  if  it 
could  mount  and  fly,  should  an  aerial  course 
be  chosen  as  a  change.  And  all  the  hearts  of 
that  boat's  company  are  more  buoyant  than 
their  skiff,  and  brighter  than  the  face  of  the 
waters  it  bears  them  over. 

But  there  comes  a  change.  Suddenly  the 
thunder-storm  shoves  up  the  tops  of  his  black 
wings  above  the  horizon.  They  rise  and  un- 


PITY.  13 

furl  themselves  with  a  fearful  rapidity,  and 
stretch  gloomily  across  the  heavens,  curtaining! 
the  shining  arch  with  a  moving  darkness.  The 
deep  reflects  the  upper  blackness,  and  the  pow 
ers  of  air,  pressed  down  into  an  under  sphere 
of  action,  heap  up  the  frowning  waters,  and 
roll  them  over  in  sable  masses,  while  the  light 
ning  descends,  as  to  bind  them  in  bundles  with 
its  fiery  chain,  or  to  transfix  them  with  ,the 
point  of  its  terrible  fork.  The  billows  hiss  and 
are  astonished,  as  the  bolt  falls  on  them  ;  and 
the  crash  of  the  thunder  sounds  as  if  the 
heavens  were  breaking  down  upon  the  flood. 

The  boat  is  far  out  at  sea.  Her  sail  has 
taken  a  sombre,  ashy  hue,  and  is  dropped ; 
while  the  faces  within  her  are  pale  as  her 
sheet ;  and  she  floats  about  at  the  mercy  of  the 
menacing  elements,  where  one  toss  of  the 
wave,  one  stroke  of  the  blast,  or  a  touch  of  the 
lightning's  point  may  consign  her  awe-struck 
company  to  the  cold  bosom  of  the  deep. 

Anna  is  in  that  boat ;  and  a  still,  small  voice 
whispers  to  her  soul,  '  Remember  the  sea  of 
Galilee!'  'Be  not  afraid;  it  is  I.'  And  she- 
looks  ;  and  lo !  a  fisherman  in  his  homelier  and 
heavier  craft,  heaves  in  view  from  behind  a 


14  PITY. 

far-off  watery  hill.  His  boat,  made  for  useful 
service,  is  steady,  and  moves  on  soberly  and 
self-possessed,  to  the  relief  of  the  light-keeled 
skiff.  The  fisherman  has  been  out  to  serve 
the  wants  of  life,  and  now  he  is  at  hand  to 
save  it  from  impending  death.  He  makes 
haste  to  the  rescue ;  and  soon  the  whole  com 
pany  are  safe  on  shore,  on  the  island,  and  near 
the  j}lace  where  Anna  lately  walked. 

The  heavy  masses  of  dark  vapor  that  ob 
scured  the  skies,  begin  to  fall  asunder.  They 
thin  off,  scatter,  and  pass  away.  The  cloud 
that  held  the  shower,  let  fall  only  a  few  drops, 
by  way  of  salutation,  as  it  moved  over  the  un 
housed  heads  of  the  glad  company,  and  is 
gone  to  pour  down  its  cataract  in  the  distance. 
The  heavens  are  recovering  their  recent  bright 
ness.  At  length,  only  a  few  downy  fragments 
of  cloud  remain,  thin  and  soft,  as  if  the  late 
storm  had  walked  the  azure  arch  with  feath 
ered  feet.  The  sun  smiles  out  from  the  west 
at  the  rainbow  in  the  east,  where  it  stands  in 
its  beauty,  the  new-born  child  of  his  own  light 
and  the  shower  that  has  passed  by.  Zephyr 
comes  hovering  round,  fanning  the  disordered 
locks  and  sprinkled  drapery  of  the  grateful 


PITY.  15 

Anna,  as  she  stands  and  looks  abroad  upon 
the  scene,  meditating  on  the  mutations  of  an 
hour,  and  the  perils  from  which  she  and  her 
companions  have  been  saved. 

But  what  is  this,  that  floats  along  on  the  air, 
near  her,  from  among  the  shrubs  and  grass  on 
yonder  height  ?  It  is  brilliant  as  a  piece  cut 
out  of  that  rainbow,  and  full  of  life  and  grace 
ful  motion.  Its  body  is  wrapped  in  a  downy 
vest,  and  girt  about  with  shining  rings.  Its 
wings  are  of  soft  velvet,  like  the  leaf  of  a  vio 
let,  studded  with  gems  and  bordered  with  a 
golden  fringe.  The  pretty  airy  stranger  flies 
over  Anna's  shoulder,  and  to  and  fro  before 
her  eyes.  Then  away,  away  he  goes,  across 
the  sand,  and  over  the  water,  balancing  and 
dancing,  and  sailing  mere  awhile  in  the  air. 
And  now  he  returns  and  hovers  near  her,  as 
if  he,  even  he,  the  butterfly,  had  a  message  to 
communicate,  or  a  mission  to  perform,  for  one 
whom  he  must  not  disobey;  — one  who  had 
made  him  so  bright,  and  suspended  him  in  air, 
on  the  wing  before  her.  And  again  that  small, 
still  voice  comes  to  the  soul  of  Anna,  in  mys 
terious  accents,  saying :  — 

1  In   the   winged  one  before  thee,  that   has 


16  PITY. 

arisen  from  the  worm  which  once  crawled  at 
thy  feet,  behold  I  show  thee  an  emblem  of  a 
being  nobler  in  power,  wiser  in  understanding, 
and  higher  in  destination  ;  but  still  weak,  wan 
dering,  blind,  and  ever  in  need  of  the  sparing 
mercy,  the  tender  pity,  and  the  protecting  hand 
of  the  greater,  higher,  and  holier  One  who  in- 
habiteth  eternity. 

'  PITY  is  a  kind,  soothing,  gentle  angel,  the 
daughter  of  Love,  lovely  and  beautiful  in  the 
sight,  and  dear  to  the  heart  of  her  Father  in 
heaven.  Yet  he  hath  no  office  for  her  there, 
where  there  are  no  wounds  for  her  to  bind 
up  —  no  woes  for  her  to  weep  over.  On  earth, 
abundant  cause  of  gratitude  and  delight  will 
he  make  manifest  to  the  soul  that  entertains 
her.  To  this  world  was  she  sent  from  her 
native  skies,  to  work,  and  watch,  and  drop  her 
precious  tears,  not  for  herself,  for  she  is  ever 
blest;  but  for  others,  the  children  of  earth. 
And  when  her  purpose  is  accomplished  here, 
she  will  fall  asleep  on  her  Father's  bosom,  and 
rest  forever ! ' 


THE  GRAVE  BENEATH  THE  THORN-TREE. 


THE  pleasant  New  England  town  of  New- 
buryport,  lying  on  a  gentle  slope  of  ground, 
just  above  where  the  Merrimack  opens  into  the 
ocean,  declines  gracefully  to  the  water's  edge. 
There,  as  its  boats  and  shipping  glide  over  the 
stream,  casting  the  shadows  of  their  white  sails 
on  its  sparkling  surface,  or  furl  the  canvas  in 
the  haven,  it  may  be  said  to  form  a  smile  about 
the  mouth  of  that  noble  river,  as  it  finishes  its 
course. 

The  town,  owing  to  its  position,  and  the 
peculiar  beauty  of  the  scenery  within  and 
around  it,  affords  many  points  of  observation 
where,  by  a  single  coup-d'oeil,  one  may  com 
mand  a  very  wide  and  diversified  prospect, 
with  nothing  to  intercept  the  view  till  it  is  lost 
in  the  distance. 
2 


18  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

Its  High  Street  is  rich  in  these ;  while  it 
forms  its  boundary  on  one  side,  and  finishes 
off  a  large  part  of  that  upper  skirt  with  a  neat 
and  comely  border  of  fair  buildings,  umbra 
geous  trees,  gardens,  grassy  grounds,  flowering 
shrubs,  and  climbing  vines. 

When,  at  a  certain  point  in  this  street,  you 
have  on  one  hand  the  town,  whose  fall,  though 
easy,  is  still  so  low  that  your  eye  may  glance 
over  it,  or  run  down  one  of  its  other  neat 
streets,  straight  to  the  wharves ;  and,  crossing 
the  river  either  by  water  or  the  bridge,  stray 
away,  if  it  be  not  too  short-sighted,  among  the 
fields  and  woods  of  Salisbury,  and  the  country 
beyond  it.  On  the  other  hand  lies  a  green 
strip  of  pleasure  ground,  into  which  you  may 
step  from  the  highway;  and,  measuring  its 
width  by  a  few  paces,  reach  the  railing  on  the 
opposite  side.  As  you  lean  against  this  bar 
rier,  and  look  down  the  steep  bank  which  it 
surmounts,  your  sight  will  fall  on  a  quiet  little 
body  of  water  that  lies,  calm  and  noiseless,  in 
its  basin  far  below  you ;  and,  like  the  bosom 
of  the  righteous,  is  supplied,  in  its  serenity,  by 
a  secret,  living,  and  never-failing  spring. 


THE    THORN-TREE.  19 

Glancing  over  this  miniature  lake,  your  eye 
strikes  first  on  the  eastern  side  of  a  sudden  rise 
of  earth,  denominated,  by  way  of  distinction 
from  its  neighbor  cemetery,  '  The  Old  Burying 
Ground.'  Situated  thus,  you  have  the  land  of 
the  living  behind,  and  that  of  the  dead  before 
you ;  with  only  this  little  sheet  of  water  separa 
ting  you  from  the  latter.  If  you  go  down  to 
the  path  encircling  the  pond,  you  may  look  up, 
and  see  this  solemn  eminence  rising  abruptly 
above  your  head,  like  one  vast  sepulchral  mound, 
and  bristling  to  its  summit  with  thickset  monu 
mental  stones,  dark,  white,  and  grey,  that  bear 
the  names  of  those  whose  ashes  seem  to  have 
been  amassed  until  they  swelled  the  height. 

The  limits  of  this  burying-ground  now  in 
clude  the  hill  and  a  part  of  the  valley,  that  on 
the  south  and  west  sinks  at  its  foot.  Tradi 
tion  affirms,  that  they  originally  encompassed 
the  hill  only ;  and,  that  this  lower  portion  was, 
at  a  later  period,  taken  in  as  an  enlargement, 
to  accommodate  the  silent  congregation ;  when 
their  numbers  had  increased  till  the  higher 
places  were  all  filled.  But,  whether  the  choice 
of  those,  who  first  selected  this  spot  to  be  thus 
consecrated,  was  fixed  by  its  height  —  that  the 


20  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

sun  might  shine  earlier  from  the  east,  and  later 
from  the  west,  on  the  city  of  their  dead,  than 
on  the  habitations  of  the  living,  or  was  decided 
by  the  aqueous  feature  of  the  scene,  stirring  up 
in  their  pure  minds  some  hallowed  associa 
tions  with  the  symbolic  waters  of  their  religion, 
no  witness  remains  to  tell. 

Touching  the  inequality  of  situation,  the 
high  and  the  low  places  assigned  to  the  multi 
tude  in  this  dominion,  it  is  too  late  for  human 
clay  to  be  puffed  up  and  made  vain  by  the 
one,  or  humbled  and  depressed  by  the  other. 
The  morning,  it  is  true,  smiles  first,  and  the 
sun  pours  his  fullest  flood  of  glory  over  the 
more  elevated  ashes  ;  but  the  dew  lies  longest 
on  the  flower,  the  grass  is  softest,  and  the  ver 
dure  richest  on  the  beds  of  those  who  sleep  in 
the  vale. 

One  bright  and  balmy  afternoon  in  the 
spring-time  of  the  year,  I  found  myself  shut 
out  from  observation,  on  the  retired  side  of  this 
hill,  and,  with  reverential  foot,  winding  my 
way  among  the  mounds  and  speaking  stones, 
at  about  half  its  height.  The  train  of  thoughts, 
the  frame  of  feeling  into  which  such  a  walk 
will  lead  the  mind  and  bring  the  heart  of  the 


THE    THORN-TREE.  21 

meditative,  needs  not  be  told  to  one  who  has 
taken  it ;  while,  to  one  who  has  not,  they  can 
never  be  made  known  by  description.  On 
such  an  occasion,  that  busy  power,  imagina 
tion,  should  be  sanctified,  and  have  her  wings 
luminous  with  the  light  of  a  higher  and  purer 
world,  to  hover  over  so  much  dust  and  dark 
ness.  Curiosity,  too,  should  be  spiritual ;  and 
the  subjects  of  her  speculations  not  physical, 
but  moral.  Yet,  while  she  must  shudder  at 
the  sacrilegious  thought  that  would  impiously 
lift  the  clods,  and  pry  into  the  secret  concerns 
beneath  them,  she  may  innocently  question  her 
sister,  imagination,  about  the  many  and  vari 
ous  stories  of  the  lives  of  those  to  whom  they 
are  now  but  as  '  a  dream  when  one  awaketh.' 

With  my  thoughts  thus  occupied  by  the  vol 
umes  of  interesting  tales  of  truth  that  could  here 
be  compiled,  could  every  grave  give  out  the  his 
tory  of  its  tenant,  I  had  paused,  and  was  look 
ing  up,  to  consider  whether  I  should  climb  any 
farther,  occasionally  preventing  my  feet  from 
sliding  back,  by  the  check  of  a  '  memento  morij 
when  the  sweet  song  of  a  bird,  suddenly  war 
bled  forth  from  behind  me,  touched  my  ear, 
and  turned  my  eye  down  into  the  vale.  The 


22  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

happy  little  minstrel  was  perched  on  the  top  of 
a  small  thorn-tree,  covered  with  white  blossoms, 
that  grew  straight  up  out  of  a  grave,  which  was 
the  first  of  a  long  range  that  lay  side  by  side,  and 
near  together,  in  the  lowest  spot  at  the  base  of 
Ihe  hill.  I  supposed  it  to  be  a  kindred  gather 
ing,  and  passed  down,  to  read  the  family  name : 
but  I  found  it  was  only  that  of  the  family  of 
strangers  and  sojourners  here.  This  was  the 
foreigners'  lot.  Its  tenants,  brought  into  such 
close  alliance,  and  quiet  neighborhood  of  dust, 
were  of  different  countries,  nations,  and  lan 
guages.  Here  had  their  wanderings  ended ; 
and  their  tongues  no  longer  needed  the  inter 
preter!  But,  how  this  flowering  tree,  in  its 
delicate  dress  and  sharp  armor,  was  planted 
here,  was  wholly  a  matter  of  conjecture.  The 
berry  or  seed,  that  contained  its  germ,  might 
have  been  dropped  by  some  antecedent  rela 
tive  of  that  very  little  winged  one  which  I  had 
just  frightened  away.  It  was  small  in  circum 
ference  and  in  height,  not  much  above  the 
human  stature ;  and  with  its  robe  of  white 
blossoms  prevailing  in  show  over  the  young 
green  leaves  not  yet  spread,  by  the  supersti 
tious  eye,  never  the  most  accurate  in  defining 


THE    THORN-TREE.  23 

form  or  taking  dimensions,  passing  that  way 
in  the  shadowy  night  hour,  it  might  easily  have 
been  converted  into  a  sheeted  spectre.  And, 
had  that  little  bird  chanced  to  be  a  nightingale, 
serenading  the  sleepers,  it  might  also  have 
passed  for  that  great  wonder  on  earth,  a  musi 
cal  apparition. 

Its  root  had  struck  down  into  the  grave, 
where  it  was  working  deeper  than  I  wished  to 
study  ;  though  I  made  a  slight  investigation  to 
learn  the  hold  and  the  course  it  had  taken.  At 
this,  a  spirited  little  scion,  starting  out  from 
among  the  herbage  I  was  separating,  pierced 
my  finger  with  its  needle,  demanding  a  drop 
of  blood  as  a  penalty  for  the  intrusion,  which 
it  paid,  and  withdrew,  smarting  for  its  temerity. 
But,  notwithstanding  this  quick  repulse  and 
pointed  reproof  for  meddling,  I  ventured  to 
part  the  tufts  of  grass  before  the  head-stone, 
that  felt  damp  and  cold,  like  the  moist  locks  on 
the  forehead  of  the  dying,  as  I  held  them  back 
to  examine  the  inscription  on  its  mossy  face. 
I  read,  i  Ci-git  Marie  Felicite,  espouse  de '  • — - 
and  enough  farther  to  inform  me  that  she,  who 
slept  there,  was  a  French  lady  from  the  island 
of  Guadaloupe ;  that  she  was  married,  and 


24  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

had  died  when  very  young.  These  facts,  with 
an  interest  natural  to  one  who  has  had  friends 
abroad  in  foreign  lands,  enkindled  in  me  a 
desire  to  know  something  more  of  this  lady. 
I  therefore  transferred  the  name  on  the  rough 
stone  to  a  vellum  leaf,  as  it  occurred  to  my 
mind,  that  I  knew  one  person  who  could,  per 
haps,  tell  me  some  portion  of  the  history  of 
her  who  had  borne  it. 

There  then  dwelt  in  the  town,  though  he  too 
is  now  in  the  dust,  an  aged  French  physician, 
a  native  of  the  mountains  of  France,  who,  in 
the  bloody  days  of  the  Revolution,  and  the 
reign  of  terror,  had  been  a  refugee ;  and,  after 
having  passed  some  time  among  the  West 
India  Islands,  had  thence  found  his  way  to  this 
country  and  town,  where  he  settled,  and  had 
been,  from  a  day  not  within  my  knowledge,  a 
successful  and  highly  respected  practitioner. 

In  former  years,  the  good  old  gentleman 
might  be  seen  at  all  hours,  and  in  every  quar 
ter  of  the  town,  in  his  suit  of  dark  green,  his 
white  hair  bound  in  a  slender  cue,  lying  on  his 
back,  with  its  end  curled  out  into  a  little  silvery 
globe,  that  looked  like  a  flower  of  the  snow 
ball  tree  with  its  stem  bent  downward  over 


THE    THORN-TREE.  25 

the  deep  verdure,  as  he  diligently  wended  his 
way  to  the  chambers  of  the  sick,  with  a  smile, 
a  reverence,  or  a  word  of  civility  for  every  one 
he  met.  And,  in  his  pleasantry  and  cheerful 
ness  of  spirit,  he  often  carried  to  his  patient  a 
'medicine  to  minister  to  a  mind  diseased,' 
which  was  quite  as  efficacious  as  that  which 
the  vials  in  his  pocket  contained  for  the  body, 
and  ever  made  him  a  welcome  visitor. 

But  now,  in  his  advanced  age,  the  eyes  that 
had  long  and  faithfully  served  him  as  a  man 
of  profound  science,  a  polished  scholar,  and  a 
devoted  lover  of  the  beauties  of  nature  and  of 
art — that  had  looked  on  the  fearful  sights  of 
the  times  of  Robespierre,  and  wept  the  adieu 
of  an  exile  to  his  country,  had  become  totally 
blind!  An  impenetrable  veil  had  passed  be 
tween  them  and  all  outer  things.  Yet  on  its 
inside,  its  lining,  memory  was  ever  busily  em 
ployed  as  a  painter  of  the  scenes  and  objects 
of  other  days.  The  picture  of  his  whole  life's 
journey  was  there  vividly  portrayed  in  despite 
of  those  dark  films. 

What  is  memory,  a  single  faculty  of  the 
soul,  that  it  can  command  and  embrace  so 
much  ?  What  is  a  whole  life,  or  a  system  of 


26  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

things  here,  that  the  concerns  thereof  can  be  so 
compressed?  What  is  the  soul,  that  on  these 
but  rests  her  foot  as  a  point  from  which  to 
depart,  while  lifting  her  wings  for  that  un 
bounded  flight  onward,  onward,  where  the 
very  echo  of  imagination  that  calls  after  is  lost 
behind  the  eternal  hills  ? 

This  venerable  man  had  no  relative  near 
him,  or  on  this  side  of  the  waters  spread  be 
tween  him  and  his  native  shore.  He  had 
passed  through  life  a  solitary  bachelor ;  and 
now,  in  the  decline  of  his  strength,  and  the 
dark  evening  of  his  day,  he  had,  literally,  no 
one  on  whom  to  lean  for  support,  or  to  lend 
him  vision.  He  had  lost  sight  of  the  world, 
and  the  world  had  lost  sight  of  him.  He 
therefore  kept  chiefly  at  home,  sustained  by 
remembrance  of  the  past,  and  such  hopes  of 
the  future  as  the  present  consolations  of  his 
Catholic  faith  could  afford  him,  with  no  image 
or  confessor  but  what  he  found  in  the  still 
sanctuary  of  his  own  bosom ;  yet,  to  any 
friend  who  would  seek  him  in  the  seclusion  of 
his  dim  room,  he  ever  gave  a  warm  welcome, 
and  was  courteous,  social,  and  entertaining,  as 
in  his  days  of  light. 


THE    THORN-TREE.  27 

I  had  known  that  the  troubled  state  of  his 
country,  at  the  time  of  his  leaving  it,  was  a 
subject  which,  whenever  it  was  reverted  to, 
wrought  powerfully  on  his  feelings ;  but,  with 
out  suspecting  how  tender  a  string  I  was  about 
to  touch,  I  sought  an  early  opportunity  of  see 
ing  him,  and  asked  if  he  ever  had  such  a 
patient  as  the  lady  whose  name  I  produced. 

His  aged  bosom  heaved,  and  a  tear  shone  in 
his  darkened  eye,  as  he  replied,  '  Ah !  oui  — 
pauvre  Marie !  cette  douce  fleur  fletrie  avant 
le  midi !  Elle  etait  belle  comme  1'aurore ;  et 
bonne  comme  les  anges  du  ciel ! '  Having  re 
lieved  himself  by  a  few  vehement  expressions, 
compounded  of  words,  sighs,  and  gesticula 
tions,  he  attempted  to  tell  me,  while  his  broken 
English  and  disused  French  contending,  and 
tripping  each  other  on  his  tongue,  prevented  a 
fair  utterance  of  either,  something  of  the  object 
of  my  inquiry.  But  I  soon  discovered  that 
there  was  nothing  very  extraordinary  in  the  life 
of  Marie,  or  that  was  particularly  connected 
with  him,  to  occasion  his  emotion.  It  was 
only  a  few  incidents  in  the  history  of  her  pa 
rents,  that  had  led  his  mind  back  to  the  trou 
bled  past,  and  his  murdered  king.  What  he 


28  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

knew  of  Marie  was  conveyed  in  a  few  words. 
He  then  said  he  had  some  notes  and  snatches 
of  history,  that  would  give  me  a  few  facts 
relative  to  her  family,  that  might  not  be  unin 
teresting.  Rising,  he  felt  the  way  along  to  his 
desk,  to  which  he  applied  the  key ;  and,  tak 
ing  out  an  old-fashioned  pocket-book,  richly 
wrought  with  gold  and  all  the  colors  of  the 
rainbow,  unclasped  it,  saying,  as  he  held  forth 
one  hand,  '  Vous  voyez  que'  j'ai  un  ceil  au 
bout  de  chaque  doight ! '  Presenting  several 
little  parcels  of  papers,  bound  with  different 
colored  ribbons,  he  selected  one,  and  asked, 
'  Est-ce  que  cela  a  le  ruban  bleu  ? '  On  my 
affirmative  answer,  he  put  the  blue  ribboned 
manuscript  into  my  hand,  and  requested  me  to 
read  it.  It  was  his  own  writing ;  and  neat, 
pure  French,  in  the  choice  of  every  expression 
and  word,  the  peculiarly  graceful  cut  and  easy 
run  of  every  letter  and  line. 

What  he  particularly  wished  to  communi 
cate,  respecting  Marie's  father  and  mother,  was 
a  short  piece  of  the  thread  of  their  story,  taken 
abruptly  from  amidst  the  perilous  scenes  of  its 
eventful  day,  and  may  be  conveyed  in  the  fol 
lowing  brief  narration,  in  connection  with  the 


THE    THORN-TREE.  29 

circumstances  which,  at  a  later  period,  led  her 
to  her  final  rest  beneath  the  clods  where  I  had 
found  her  name. 

Soon  after  the  great  battle  of  Fleurus,  in 
1794,  between  the  French  and  Austrians,  though 
victory  had  turned  on  the  side  of  the  former, 
their  troops,  re-entering  Belgium,  were  sur 
prised  in  Brussels,  and  so  near  being  taken, 
that  they  were  scattered  and  put  to  flight. 

It  was  just  at  night-fall,  when  Annette  Mar- 
celle,  the  young  niece,  and  foster-child  of  the 
sexton  of  a  parish  on  the  border  of  Brussels, 
standing  at  her  uncle's  door,  saw  a  youthful 
passenger,  whom  she  discovered  to  be  a  French 
officer,  hurrying  by ;  and  rushing,  as  she  well 
knew,  directly  into  the  power  of  those,  who, 
though  her  friends,  were  his  deadly  foes.  That 
mysterious  and  holy  spring,  which  in  the  bo 
som  of  the  benevolent  is  so  quickly  moved  by 
the  sight  of  misfortune,  was  at  once  put  in 
play  in  the  sensitive  heart  of  the  generous  girl 
by  the  object  before  her.  She  knew  him  to  be 
one  from  an  enemy's  camp  ;  yet  it  was  enough 
that  he  was  alone,  defenceless,  and  in  mortal 
peril,  from  which  she  might  rescue  him ;  and 
the  moment  being  one  propitious  to  such  an 


30  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

enterprise,  through  the  absence  of  her  uncle 
from  home,  she  resolved  without  delay  to  do 
her  utmost  to  save  him. 

1  Stop !  stranger,'  she  cried,  '  if  you  go  on, 
you  are  lost ! '  *  I  am  equally  so,  if  I  go  back,' 
replied  the  fugitive  ;  *  I  know  not  where  safety 
is.'  l  Come  in  here,'  said  Annette,  i  and  you 
shall  find  it.'  Nadau,  for  such  was  the  strang 
er's  name,  accepted.  Annette  then  explained 
to  him  the  motive  and  the  circumstances  that 
had  emboldened  her  to  take  so  venturous  a 
step,  and  told  him  it  was  one  that  might  yet 
prove  fatal  to  him,  as  her  uncle,  should  he 
come  home  and  find  him  there,  would  assur 
edly  deliver  him  up  to  those  who  were  seeking 
him.  Then,  giving  a  loose  outer  garment,  she 
told  him  to  wrap  it  round  him  and  follow  her. 
Leading  the  way  to  the  barn,  where  was  a 
large  pile  of  new  straw,  she  directed  him  to 
hollow  out  a  cell  and  lie  down,  and  let  her 
bury  him  in  it.  Having  heaped  the  light  cov 
ering  well  over  her  hidden  protege,  she  returned 
to  the  house,  and  was  busily  employed  about 
her  domestic  concerns,  when  the  sexton  came 
home. 

Nadau  was  a  shrewd  and  ardent  politician, 


THE    THORN-TREE.  31 

and  an  intrepid  soldier.  His  talents  as  the 
one,  and  his  prowess  as  the  other,  rendered  him 
a  marked  man  and  a  desirable  conquest.  He 
knew  his  pursuers  had  track  of  him,  and  that 
they  would  leave  no  stone  unturned  in  their 
search ;  while  his  jeopardized  life,  which  other 
wise  might  have  been  but  loosely  held,  was 
doubly  dear  on  account  of  his  wife  and  little 
son,  now  retired  into  the  country,  and  ignorant 
of  his  fate.  By  some,  the  charge  may  have 
been  laid  against  the  kind  Annette,  of  a  roman 
tic  susceptibility  to  that  tender  passion  to  which 
it  is  said,  that  '  pity  melts  the  mind,'  and  of 
her  being  actuated  by  this  in  her  heroism  in 
behalf  of  the  young  stranger.  But  she  will  be 
acquitted,  or  allowed  to  have  turned  the  teach 
ing  of  that  potentate  to  a  disinterested  and 
holy  use,  when  it  is  known,  that  on  being  in 
formed  by  Nadau  of  the  strongest  ties,  which 
bound  him  to  life,  being  conjugal  and  paternal, 
her  assiduity  to  save  that  life  seemed  even 
greater  than  before. 

He  had  not  lain  long,  under  his  new  covert, 
when  a  scouting  band  of  the  enemy's  soldiers 
came  up,  and,  seeing  that  the  barn  offered  a  com 
modious  lodging  place,  they  turned  in  also,  to 


32  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

refresh  their  war-worn  frames  on  the  comforta 
ble  bed  of  straw  that  seemed  made  ready  ex 
pressly  for  their  coming.  They  threw  them 
selves  down  on  it,  and  soon  passed  into  the 
land  of  dreams.  The  vigilant  girl  kept  one 
eye  to  them  and  the  other  to  her  uncle,  till  he 
retired  for  the  night,  leaving  her  free  from  ob 
servation.  Then,  under  favor  of  the  shades, 
with  stealthy  steps,  she  made  her  way  to  the 
barn,  and,  having  listened  without  till  a  nasal 
enunciation  gave  evidence  that  the  soldiers 
were  under  keeping  of  the  leaden  king's  key, 
she  crept  round  to  where  her  warrior  lay,  not 
<  taking  his  rest,'  but  motionless  and  half-suffo 
cated,  and,  giving  a  gentle  signal  that  she  was 
near,  whispered  him  to  rise  and  escape. 

The  rustling  and  settling  of  the  straw,  as  he 
withdrew  his  feet  from  under  it,  where  one  of 
the  soldiers  had  pillowed  his  head,  aroused  the 
slumberer.  He  started  up,  and  seized  Nadau 
by  the  hand  within  the  cloak,  with  the  grasp 
of  one  not  yet  come  to  himself,  and  uncertain 
whether  it  was  dream  or  reality.  But  Annette, 
whose  eyes  and  wits  were  wider  awake,  feel 
ing  herself  at  the  dernier  resort,  in  this  dark 
rencounter,  thrust  her  head  between  two  belli- 


THE    THORN-TREE.  33 

gerents,  and  said,  in  her  soft  voice,  (  Let  me 
go !  it  is  I,  come  to  see  if  my  poor,  lame  kid 
was  not  suffering  hurt  from '  The  half- 
asleep  soldier,  surprised  by  a  female  voice,  and 
ashamed  of  his  attack,  supposing  it  to  be  her 
hand  that  he  had  seized,  loosed  his  hold,  and, 
muttering  an  apology,  lowered  himself  to  rest ; 
while  the  object  of  so  much  and  so  widely  dif 
ferent  interest,  passed  out,  followed  by  his  fair 
deliverer. 

Annette  then  conducted  Nadau  to  her  own 
room,  and,  closing  the  door,  bade  him  remain, 
while  she  would  go  for  a  lamp,  and  the  keys 
of  the  church,  of  which  her  uncle  had  the  care. 
Furnished  with  these,  she  returned,  and  bade 
him  follow  her,  as,  with  her  muffled  lamp,  she 
led  the  way  ;  and,  reaching  the  chapel,  that  had 
been  plundered  of  all  its  rich  vessels  and  orna 
ments  by  the  ravages  of  war,  she  passed  in, 
removing  the  key  to  the  inner  side  of  the  lock, 
and  turning  it,  proceeded  to  the  altar.  Behind 
this  was  a  secret  trap-door,  which  she  lifted, 
and  said,  '  You  see  these  sombre  steps :  they 
lead  to  the  tomb  of  an  illustrious  family ;  a 
place  so  long  unopened,  that  it  is  nearly  for 
gotten  or  unknown.  If  you  have  the  fortitude 
3 


34  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

to  descend,  and  wait  here  till  a  moment  shall 
offer  for  your  escape,  I  will  watch  for  it,  and 
come  and  apprize  and  liberate  you.'  She  then 
stepped  down  to  usher  her  companion  into  the 
solemn  chamber  of  death. 

But  what  was  the  surprise  of  Nadau,  when, 
by  the  first  rays  of  the  lamp  that  fell  on  the 
gloomy  furniture  of  this  shadowy  apartment, 
he  beheld  the  arms  of  his  own  family,  who 
were  of  high  rank,  and  originally  of  Brus 
sels  !  For  a  while  he  stood  and  gazed  on  the 
escutcheons,  mute  and  motionless  with  aston 
ishment,  to  find  himself  thus  surrounded  by 
the  ashes  of  those  whose  blood  had  descended 
to  his  veins,  and  was  coursing  warm  through 
them ;  while  their  ancestral  names  were  ad 
dressing  him  with  a  kindred  greeting  from  the 
marble  coffins  that  on  every  side  met  his  eye, 
in  that  abode  of  shade  and  silence,  and  wel 
coming  him  to  an  asylum  from  death  beneath 
his  very  throne ! 

In  his  transport  and  overflow  of  feeling  at 
this  surprise,  which  for  a  while  made  him  for 
get  the  cause  that  had  introduced  him  to  it, 
Annette  left  him,  promising  soon  to  return  and 
liberate  him,  or  at  least  bring  refreshments. 


THE    THORN-TREE.  35 

Alone  with  the  ashes  of  his  kindred,  he  re 
garded  each  sarcophagus  as  containing  a  friend, 
whose  love  and  sympathy  he  there  possessed ; 
and,  kneeling  beside  them,  he  conversed  with 
the  dust,  as  if  it  were  still  informed  by  the 
spirits  that  had  so  long  ago  passed  out  of  it  to 
their  final  inheritance. 

With  his  rnind  thus  partially  diverted  from 
the  strangeness  and  peril  of  his  own  situation, 
and  his  thoughts  interlaced  with  the  many-col 
ored  threads  of  the  history  of  his  ancient  and 
honorable  family  line,  he  found,  by  the  strokes 
of  the  old  church  clock,  that  the  night  had 
worn  away  and  the  morning  come,  much 
quicker  than  he  could  have  expected  in  so 
gloomy  an  inn. 

The  day  advanced,  and  he  began  to  grow 
impatient  for  the  return  of  his  friend.  Yet 
hour  after  hour  was  dolefully  tolled  off  by  that 
solemn  clock,  till  another  evening  drew  near; 
and  still  she  came  not !  Sometimes  he  feared  she 
might  have  forgotten  him ;  and  then,  sorry  for  so 
unjust  a  suspicion,  he  trembled  lest  she  had  been 
detected  in  her  benevolent  undertaking,  and 
fallen  a  martyr  to  her  efforts  to  save  him ;  while 
he  might  be  left  there  alone,  to  come  to  a  more 


36  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

terrible  end  than  any  he  had  escaped  above 
ground.  Thus,  with  the  image  of  a  most 
dreadful,  lingering  death  staring  him  in  the 
face,  did  Nadau  find  another,  and  the  darkest 
night  that  ever  he  had  known,  settling  down 
over  him,  in  that  sepulchral  cell.  Overcome 
by  the  horrors  of  his  condition,  and  exhausted 
from  want  of  air  and  food,  he  fell  upon  one  of 
the  coffins,  where  he  lay  too  faint  to  rise,  and 
expecting  never  more  to  come  forth  to  the  light 
of  time.  His  lamp  had  gone  out ;  and  he  felt 
that  the  lamp  of  his  life  must  soon  follow,  leav 
ing  to  his  friends  no  traces  of  his  fate. 

On  the  morning  of  the  second  day,  Annette 
came  with  refreshments.  As  she  descended 
into  the  vault,  she  saw  the  form  of  Nadau' 
stretched  like  a  corpse  on  the  coffin ;  and  sup 
posing  him  to  be  dead,  she  gave  a  deep  groan, 
and  hastily  reascending,  dropped  the  trap.  A 
desperate  effort,  and  a  preternatural  energy 
enabled  the  prostrate  man  to  utter  a  cry,  which 
brought  her  back  to  his  relief;  when  fresh  air 
and  nourishment  soon  revived  him. 

Annette  explained  the  cause  of  her  absence. 
Their  house,  she  said,  had  been  beset  by  armed 
men,  who  accused  her  uncle  of  having  secreted 


THE    THORN-TREE.  37 

an  emigrant  foe ;  while  he,  ignorant  of  her  im 
prudence,  had,  with  the  most  solemn  assevera 
tions,  disclaimed  all  knowledge  of  any  such 
person;  and  that  they  had  both  been  strictly 
watched. 

Hardly  had  she  made  this  explanation,  when 
the  sound  of  voices,  the  opening  of  doors,  with 
rude  foot-steps  and  the  clanging  of  arms,  was 
heard  within  the  church.  She  understood  it 
all,  and  gently  lowered  the  trap ;  for  she  recog 
nized  the  voices,  and  knew  it  was  a  band  of 
soldiery  accompanied  by  her  uncle,  who,  in  the 
sincerity  of  his  heart,  was  endeavoring  to  estab 
lish  his  innocence,  by  showing  every  part  of 
the  church  where  they  had  accused  him  of 
concealing  the  object  of  their  search.  They 
passed  roughly  about  from  place  to  place,  in 
every  direction;  and  even  walked,  with  an 
awful  tramp,  over  the  door  that  shut  in  the 
living  entombed  among  the  dead.  Finding 
their  search  but  vain,  they  gave  it  over,  and 
withdrew;  while  the  two  subterraneans  heard 
their  receding  feet,  and  the  doors  closing  after 
them,  with  feelings  of  a  new  and  unspeakable 
relief  and  joy. 

When  all  was  hushed  as  before,   Annette 


38  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

ventured  forth,  promising  to  return  soon  with 
fresh  supplies  of  provision,  and  to  attend  him 
till  a  way  for  his  safe  departure  should  seem 
clear.  And  day  after  day  her  word  was  kept, 
and  the  prisoner  sustained  by  her  unremitting 
care  and  ministrations. 

When  more  than  a  week  had  thus  heavily 
worn  away,  she  came  one  evening  and  in 
formed  him  that  a  season  of  calm  had  arrived, 
when  he  might  regain  his  liberty.  As  the 
hunted  deer  darts  out  of  the  thicket,  and  is  off 
at  a  bound,  so  did  this  disentombed  prisoner 
go  forth,  when  he  had  thanked  God  and  his 
humane  instrument  in  this  deliverance  with  all 
the  depth  and  fervor  of  gratitude,  which  heart 
could  feel  and  expression  make  known,  for  his 
thrice-restored  life. 

In  taking  leave  of  Annette,  he  felt  as  if  the 
spirit  and  essence  of  the  friendship  of  a  whole 
age  of  man  had  been  condensed  into  the  few 
days  of  then*  acquaintance. 

He  was  melted  to  tears,  and  knelt  before  his 
benefactress  with  the  burden  of  a  heart  weighed 
down  by  unutterable  emotions.  But  the  noble 
girl  motioned  him  to  rise ;  and,  pointing  to  the 
starry  heavens, 


THE    THORN-TREE. 


'  Kneel,'  said  she,  *  to  no  being  below  Him 
whose  throne  is  there !  If  I  have  rendered  you 
a  service,  it  was  He,  the  inspirer  of  all  good 
thoughts,  and  the  mover  and  guide  to  every 
worthy  act,  whose  finger  in  the  heart  directed 
me  to  this  work ;  and  his  pure  eye  would  frown 
on  my  receiving  a  homage  due  only  to  himself. 
Thank  him,  not  me ! ' 

'  As  the  reward  from  you,  of  which  you 
speak,  I  would  claim  this  alone  — -  that  you  let 
every  unfortunate,  whom  you  may  hence  find 
it  in  your  power  to  relieve,  serve  as  a  memorial 
of  me ;  and  thereby  secure  to  yourself  the  sat 
isfaction  that  now  is  mine,  at  the  thought  of 
what  I  have  been  able  to  do  for  one  in  distress. 
If  your  gratitude  flows  out  in  secret  breathings 
of  the  heart  to  heaven,  attended  with  deeds  of 
benevolence  and  love  towards  your  fellow- 
creatures,  it  will  be  sure  to  reach  the  right  end. 
Should  it  be  an  enemy,  who  comes  into  your 
power  to  be  saved  or  sacrificed,  remember 
Annette,  and  the  church  beneath  which  your 
ancestors  rest ;  and  think  of  the  forgiving  mercy 
of  him  whose  presence  fills  his  holy  temple! 
Adieu!  speed  on  your  way  —  the  twinkling 
hosts  above  will  be  better  company  than  I,  and 


40  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

safer  lights  than  my  lamp.  When  they  go  out, 
let  the  sun  rise  upon  you  beyond  danger ! ' 

Nadau  made  haste,  and  soon  after  reached 
the  bosom  of  his  family  in  safety.  But  it  was 
not  till  reunited  to  his  gentle  and  beautiful 
Lucille,  and  their  little  son,  Etienne,  that  he 
learnt  the  full  weight  of  his  obligation  to  the 
high-minded  and  heroic,  though  humble,  girl  of 
Brussels. 

The  vicissitudes  of  life  and  fortune  in  that 
revolutionary  epoch,  which  ultimately  led  Henri 
Nadau  to  quit  France,  and  seek  a  home  else 
where,  are  not  given.  But  it  was  not  long 
after  the  events  already  related,  that  he  found 
himself,  with  his  affectionate  Lucille,  estab 
lished  as  a  temporary  resident  in  the  island  of 
Guadaloupe. 

There  was  Marie,  their  second  child,  bom  ; 
and  there  also  was  his  acquaintance,  if  it  had 
before  been  begun,  ripened  into  a  close  intimacy 
with  the  good  physician,  my  chronicler. 

The  climate  of  that  tropical  region,  which  so 
often  proves  fatal  to  Europeans  and  Americans, 
soon  began  to  show  its  baleful  effects  on  the 
constitution  of  Nadau.  The  doctor  was  his 
friend  and  comforter ;  but  he  had  not  the  pana- 


THE    THORN-TREE.  41 

cea  for  this  case — here  all  his  healing  art  failed. 
The  golden  bowl  was  broken ;  the  essence  of 
life  was  fast  flowing  out ;  he  could  not  stay 
it !  And  who  could  gather  it  up  ?  Not  long 
before  he  left  the  island  for  the  United  States, 
he  had  the  grief  to  see  his  patient  and  friend, 
Nadau,  sink  into  the  earth ;  and  the  widowed 
Lucille,  leading  out  her  little  Marie,  each  with 
a  fresh  wreath  of  flowers  to  hang  upon  the 
cross  erected  over  his  grave  —  their  daily  offer 
ing  to  the  memory  of  the  lost  husband  and 
father. 

The  want  of  proper  means  of  education 
in  the  West  India  Islands,  had  induced  the 
parents,  on  leaving  France,  to  let  their  boy  re 
main  behind,  at  school,  under  the  eye  of  a 
friend  and  relative.  Therefore,  until  the  term 
for  which  he  was  left  had  expired,  Marie  was 
her  mother's  only  present  treasure. 

Like  a  flower  of  her  own  warm  native  clime, 
she  soon  came  forward  in  life  to  full  bloom ; 
and  at  the  early  age  bordering  on  childhood, 
when  among  the  French,  and  particularly  in 
the  islands,  matrimonial  alliances  are  formed, 
Madame  Nadau  consented  to  her  daughter's 
becoming  the  bride  of  M.  Pierre  Merlande,  a 


42  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

wealthy  and  respectable  gentleman,  by  more 
than  a  dozen  years  her  senior,  and  a  native  of 
France ;  though  at  that  time  residing  in  Guad- 
aloupe. 

Marie,  like  her  mother,  had  two  children,  a 
son  and  a  daughter  —  the  boy  about  two  years 
older  than  his  sister;  and  one  six,  the  other 
four,  when  their  mother's  health  began  rapidly 
to  decline.  Medical  advice  prescribed  a  sea- 
voyage,  and  change  of  scenes  and  climate,  as 
the  best  means  of  restoring  her  failing  strength 
and  sinking  spirits ;  and,  as  it  was  Merlande's 
intention  to  give  his  son  an  English  education 
at  the  schools  and  seminaries  in  the  United 
States,  the  little  Emilius  now  being  of  an  age 
to  be  put  under  his  instructors,  preparations 
were  made  for  her  to  accompany  her  husband 
and  child  to  these  shores.  They  embarked 
with  her  brother  and  one  more  friend,  intend 
ing  to  see  the  young  Emilius  well  established 
in  school ;  and  when  they  could  leave  him 
happy  and  familiarized  with  the  new  things 
and  ways  in  American  life,  they  hoped  to  return 
with  health  and  gladness,  to  rejoin  Madame 
Nadau  and  the  infantine  Louise,  whom  they 
had  left  with  her  grand-parent,  to  supply,  by 


THE    THORN-TREE.  43 

her  play  and  prattle,  the  place  of  the  whole 
group  of  absentees. 

But  truly,  '  it  is  not  in  man  that  walketh,  to 
direct  his  steps.'  He  who  has  declared,  'my 
thoughts  are  not  your  thoughts,  neither  are 
your  ways  my  ways,'  had  in  this  case  marked 
out  an  order  of  things  signally  different  from 
that  of  human  arrangement. 

On  the  voyage,  the  sea-sickness,  which  it  was 
hoped  would  be  salutary  in  Marie's  case,  pro 
duced  the  opposite  effect;  bringing  on  a 
hemorrhage  of  the  lungs,  and  other  fearful 
symptoms,  which  so  reduced  her,  that  when 
the  vessel  arrived  in  port,  she  was  borne  on 
shore  like  one  who  had  only  escaped  an  ocean- 
burial  to  sink  into  earth  her  foot  had  never 
trod. 

But  the  land-breeze  refreshed  her  withered 
vital  energies,  and  buoyed  up  her  drooping 
frame,  till,  for  a  time,  it  seemed  losing  its 
languor ;  and  her  wonted  light  and  playfulness 
of  spirit  returned,  with  apparently  returning 
health. 

Yet  -these  favorable  signs  proved  to  be  only 
the  flattery  of  that  deceitful  and  insidious  dis 
ease  that  touches  the  cheek  with  rose,  and  lights 


44  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

the  eye  with  a  brighter  radiance,  while  its  keen 
tooth  works  deep  within,  and  its  draught  is  the 
whole  fountain  of  life.  To  the  watchful  eyes 
of  the  husband  and  brother,  her  appearance 
spoke  a  fearful  truth,  in  language  which  their 
affectionate  hearts  but  too  well  understood; 
and  most  bitterly  did  they  regret  her  separation 
from  her  mother  and  child. 

The  prospect  of  soon  losing  her  forever,  and 
this,  too,  by  her  sinking  in  a  foreign  land; 
among  strangers,  of  whose  language  she  under 
stood  not  a  syllable ;  whose  modes  of  life,  and 
way  of  preparing  and  ministering  the  smallest 
comfort,  were  all  new  and  alien  to  the  invalid ;  of 
whose  manners  and  habits  she  knew  nothing, 
and  who  were  of  another  faith  and  wor 
ship  !  —  this  was  overwhelming.  On  the  other 
hand,  to  attempt  to  return  home,  with  her 
health  in  its  present  state,  would  be  rashness, 
and  beyond  a  doubt  prove  fatal. 

Soon  after  their  arrival,  they  took  their  course 
to  this  town,  where  the  early  friend  of  their 
family,  the  venerable  physician,  resided;  and 
the  languishing  Marie  was  confided  to  his  care, 
with  the  full  assurance  that,  while  she  could 
freely  communicate  with  him  in  her  native 


THE    THORN-TREE.  45 

tongue,  his  known  medical  skill,  and  his 
acquaintance  with  constitutions  accustomed  to 
the  air  and  aliment  of  her  native  clime,  would 
enable  him  to  do  all  that  human  instrumentality 
could  for  her  recovery. 

Scarcely  were  the  strangers  established  here, 
where  they  had  taken  lodgings  in  a  private 
family,  when  the  late  war  was  declared  between 
the  United  States  and  England,  which  so  para 
lyzed  commerce,  that  their  means  of  intercourse 
with  home  were  chiefly  cut  off. 

The  doctor  was  then*  constant  visitor,  and 
unremitting  in  his  attention  and  services,  both 
as  physician  and  friend.  But  as  the  chilly 
autumn  weather  came  on,  and  its  winds  and 
frost  assailed  the  tender  tropical  flower ;  he  saw 
that  the  daughter  of  his  early  friend  was  soon 
to  follow  her  father  to  the  <  undiscovered  coun 
try'  whence  none  return.  Yet  she  lingered, 
and  did  not  utterly  fail  till,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  she  had  seen  the  snows  falling  thick 
around  her ;  and  was  to  be  transplanted  from 
an  icy,  mid- winter  scene  into  the  Paradise  from 
which  her  soul  seemed  already  to  have  taken 
its  odor  and  its  hue. 

A  short  time  before  hfer  decease,  a  letter  was; 


46  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

one  morning  brought  to  Merlande,  bearing  a 
black  seal.  It  was  from  Madame  Nadau,  an 
nouncing  the  death  of  the  little  Louise,  and 
filled  with  mournings,  and  entreaties  that  her 
children  would,  if  possible,  return  and  console 
her;  or  that  they  might  at  least  mingle  their 
tears  together  for  their  lost  jewel.  As  this  letter 
was  kept  from  the  knowledge  of  Marie,  she 
never  learnt  that  her  child  had  past  from  earth 
before  her,  till,  two  days  after  its  receipt,  she 
went  to  meet  the  infant  angel  in  the  light  of 
another  world. 

While  she  yet  lived,  her  husband  and  brother 
had,  in  her  presence,  concealed  the  deep  grief 
they  had  at  heart  on  account  of  her  state  and 
the  loss  of  the  child,  by  that  outward,  artificial 
gaiety  of  spirit  which  is  so  characteristic  of 
their  nation,  to  cloak  a  wounded  bosom.  But 
now  that  she  was  gone  —  and  forever!  that 
her  soul  had  passed  away,  without  unction  or 
shrift,  from  the  fair  form  that  lay,  pale  and 
cold,  before  them!  they  gave  themselves  up 
to  the  uncontrolled  indulgence  of  sorrow.  Its 
exhibition  was  sudden,  violent,  wild  and  im 
petuous  as  a  hurricane  of  their  island;  while 
the  astonished  child,  Emilius,  who  had  never 


THE    THORN-TREE.  47 

before  witnessed  a  death-scene,  shuddering 
looked  with  equal  wonder  and  awe  oh  the  calm 
and  the  paleness  of  his  mother,  and  the  burn 
ing  eyes  and  frenzied  actions  of  his  father  and 
uncle.  He  stood,  as  if  petrified,  between  the  dead 
and  the  living,  the  beautiful  little  statue  of  a 
weeper,  without  visible  motion,  except  what 
appeared  in  the  heavy  round  drops  that  rolled 
down  his  colorless  cheek  from  his  full,  dark 
eye ;  while  the  distracted  husband  and  brother, 
as  they  wrung  their  hands  beside  the  sleeping 
clay,  called  aloud  on  the  name  of  Marie ;  and 
invoked  her  spirit  to  return  into  the  dust  it  had 
forsaken,  to  console  them  with  even  one  more 
ray  of  light  from  that  sealed  eye,  and  a  smile 
or  a  word  from  those  silent  lips ! 

They  had  themselves  performed  the  rite  of 
sprinkling  the  holy  water,  and  had  the  burning 
tapers  placed  at  the  head  and  feet  of  the  corpse. 
But  the  funeral  service  now  to  follow  must  be 
by  a  Protestant  minister!  They  had  no  priest — 
none !  to  understand  their  desired  form  of 
burial,  to  pray  for  the  soul  of  the  dead,  or  to 
give  consolation  to  the  living!  All  seemed 
cold  and  bleak  around  them;  the  religion; 
the  earth ;  the  skies !  Every  blast  of  air  was 


48  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

freezing ;  and  the  whole  a  dark  scene.  Their 
loved  one  must  be  borne  through  drifted  snows, 
and  left  beneath  them,  in  a  frozen  ground,  as 
her  last  resting-place!  The  funeral  must  be 
conducted  in  the  Protestant  form,  all  new,  for 
eign,  and  uncongenial  to  their  bereaved  affec 
tions,  as  the  wintry  aspect  of  nature  around 
them  was  to  the  outer  man. 

Yet  then*  views  of  the  religion,  and  their 
opinion  of  the  temperature  of  the  heart  here, 
seemed  greatly  changed  when,  some  time  after 
the  interment,  they  called  on  the  clergyman 
who  had  officiated  at  the  funeral,  and  offered 
them  such  consolation  as  a  man  of  God  must 
aim  to  render  in  such  a  case,  to  pay  their 
respects  and  thank  him.  They  then  expressed 
to  a  friend  who  accompanied  them  as  interpreter, 
their  surprise  that  « The  Priest  would  take  no 
pay  for  his  services.' 

During  the  remainder  of  the  winter,  the  hus 
band  and  brother  used  frequently  to  walk  out 
in  the  evening,  when  none  in  the  house  knew 
whither,  often  absenting  themselves  from  the 
fire- side  for  hours.  But  it  was  told  by  the  in 
habitants  who  lived  near  the  burying-ground, 
and  on  so  elevated  a  situation  as  to  command 


THE    THORN-TREE.  49 

a  view  of  the  valley  part  of  it,  that  they  were 
repeatedly  seen,  with  their  black  dresses  strik 
ingly  contrasted  with  the  snowy  mound,  pros 
trate  on  the  grave  of  their  beloved  Marie. 

In  the  following  spring,  they  sought  and 
found  an  opportunity  of  returning  home  under 
a  neutral  flag,  Merlande,  thus  bereaved  of  his 
wife  and  daughter,  felt  that  the  plan  of  leaving 
his  son  behind  must  now  be  abandoned,  par 
ticularly  as  the  means  of  intercourse  with  other 
shores  were  now  so  restricted,  and  our  country 
involved  in  war. 

On  an  afternoon  of  April  in  that  spring  the 
little,  mournful  band  embarked,  and  were  seen 
standing  in  a  sable-clad  group  on  the  deck, 
looking  their  long  farewell  to  the  earth  that 
imbosomed  the  remains  of  their  lost  one,  as 
the  vessel  glided  down  towards  the  ocean,  over 
the  blue  river-waters  laid  open  to  the  reader's 
eye  in  the  beginning  of  my  narrative. 

Some  are  yet  living,  who  knew  all  their 
story  during  their  residence  in  this  town,  who 
sympathised  with  them  in  their  affliction,  and 
witnessed  their  sorrowful  departure.  After 
their  vessel  had  gone  out  too  far  to  sea  for  the 
eye  of  friendship  to  follow  her  through  the 
4 


50  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

telescope,  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  house,  going 
into  the  room  which  Merlande  had  occupied, 
found  several  valuable  articles  that  had  once 
belonged  to  Marie,  marked,  and  left  as  tokens 
to  different  members  of  the  family,  and  a 
sealed  note  addressed  to  herself,  lying  on  the 
table.  Opening  it,  she  found  it  was  signed  by 
Merlande,  and,  being  translated,  it  read  thus : 

'  The  many  tokens  of  kindness  which  I  have  received  from 
you  and  your  amiable  family,  during  my  residence  with  you, 
and  in  the  affliction  that  has  befallen  me,  authorize  me  to  solicit 
from  you  a  new  proof  of  friendship,  which  is,  that  you  will 
sometimes  visit  the  grave  of  my  wife.  I  even  dare  ask  that  yon 
will  plant  thereon  two  wild  rose-trees,  in  memory  of  the  pains 
she  has  suffered.  Even  as  that  flower,  her  life  has  been  beset 
with  thorns,  and  her  too  feeble  organs  could  not  resist  the  cold 
winter.  But  the  rose  will  bloom  again  in  the  spring 

'  It  is  a  great  consolation  to  the  bleeding  heart  to  find  sympa 
thy  in  its  sorrows.  The  tears  you  have  shed  for  my  beloved 
Marie  have  fallen  on  the  wounds  of  my  soul.  I  depart !  —  I 
leave  with  you  the  remains  of  my  wife.  I  repeat  the  request  I 
have  made,  that  you  will  visit  them,  and  often. 

k  Adieu !    I  never  forget  my  friends. 

MERLANDE.' 

The  lady  fulfilled  the  request ;  but  the  roses, 
after  promising  awhile  to  flourish,  began  to 
languish,  and  finally  dwindled  away ;  when, 
in  their  stead,  and  without  any  known  human 


THE    THORN-TREE.  51 

agency,  came  up  the  thorn-tree,  that  now  puts 
forth  its  white  blossoms,  pure  and  beautiful, 
and  stands  as  an  armed  sentinel  over  the  grave 
of  MARIE. 


It  may  perhaps  add  some  interest  to  the  fore 
going  narrative,  to  state,  that  I  have  now  in 
my  possession  the  original  French  note,  of 
which  a  translation  is  given,  with  the  date  and 
signature  of  M.  Merlande,  on  the  day  that  he 
sailed.  His  wife's  name  and  age  may  still  be 
read  on  her  small,  mossy  grave-stone  ;  and  the 
venerable  clergyman  who  witnessed  the  sor 
rows  I  have  described,  and  consigned  her  re 
mains  to  that  resting-place,  still  lives,  and 
remembers  the  scene.  He  probably  remem 
bers,  too,  being  told  at  the  time,  of  the  remark 
I  have  quoted  respecting  him  after  the  visit. 
That  the  life  of  the  good  physician  I  have 
described  was  beloved,  and  his  memory  re 
vered,  may  be  believed,  by  the  fact,  that  several 
highly  respectable  families  in  the  town  had 
each  a  son  named  after  him,  Francis  Vergnies. 
A  friend,  who  read  my  manuscript,  expressed 
a  wish  that  Annette  of  Brussels  could  have 


52  THE    GRAVE    BENEATH 

been  brought  to  view  again  in  the  story.  But 
where  history,  not  fiction,  is  aimed  at  in  simple 
narration,  this  taking  up  again  of  characters 
that  have  appeared  once  and  performed  their 
part  in  an  interesting  light,  or  otherwise,  is  not 
to  be  done,  as  in  fiction  and  romance.  I  have 
attempted  only  a  relation  of  interesting  facts  — • 
at  least  they  are  so  to  me  —  without  even  dis 
guising  a  name  by  the  use  of  another.  Since 
writing  this  story,  I  find,  among  the  notes  to  a 
long  poem  of  Le  GouvVs,  the  same  singular 
circumstances  and  preservation  of  the  life  of  a 
French  soldier  or  officer  by  a  girl,  the  niece  of 
a  sexton  in  Brussels,  is  given,  but  without 
names.  The  notes  were  illustrative  of  some 
lines  in  the  poem  on  the  <  merits  of  women.' 

It  is  but  a  sad,  though  a  true  sequel,  to  add, 
concerning  the  friend  spoken  of  as  having  ac 
companied  Mr.  Merlande  and  his  family,  that 
in  the  terrible  destruction  by  the  late  earth 
quake  at  Point-Petre,  Guadaloupe,  he  was  one 
of  the  keenest  sufferers.  He  was  in  public 
office,  had  a  large  and  valuable  establishment, 
and  an  interesting  family  —  a  wife  and  numer 
ous  children  in  their  seniority,  or  near  it.  In 
the  space  of  about  a  minute  and  a  half,  all 


THE    THORN-TREE.  53 

these,  with  the  exception  of  one  son,  were 
snatched  from  him  into  eternity,  his  buildings 
crumbled  down,  or  swallowed  by  the  yawning 
earth,  and  his  own  person  painfully  injured.  I 
have  seen  a  letter  of  his  writing  since  the 
event,  giving  an  account  of  his  own  distressing 
share  in  the  calamity  of  that  awful  moment. 
But  neither  in  public  print,  or  private  letter, 
does  any  mention  meet  my  eye  of  the  names 
of  Merlande  and  Nadau. 


THE  PAINTER'S  LAST  TOUCH. 


4 1  HAVE  it,'  said  Eicardo  de  Vittori,  breaking 
from  the  abstraction  in  which  he  had  reached 
the  threshold  of  his  small,  shadowy  apartment. 
'  Yes,  I  have  it !  I  know  just  what  is  wanting  — 
the  very  touch  to  give  it  the  expression  I  have 
so  long  sought  in  vain  to  impart.'  Closing 
this  short  soliloquy,  he  entered,  and  closed  the 
door,  shutting  out  every  thing  that  breathed 
but  his  own  wasted  person,  and  all  besides 
that  bore  the  human  form,  except  what  was 
portrayed  upon  the  canvas  on  his  easel,  to 
which  he  advanced,  and  seated  himself  be 
fore  it. 

This,  his  darling  piece,  was  a  beautiful  Ma 
donna,  with  the  infant  Jesus.  Over  it  the 
painter  had  wrought  many  a  wearisome  day, 
and  studied  away  the  dark,  silent  night-hours 
to  bring  it  to  perfection. 


It  had  caused  him  to  forget  his  food  and  lose 
his  slumber,  till  he  had  grown  thin  and  pale ; 
and  he  had  this  morning  arisen  from  a  sleep 
less  pillow,  and  come  fasting,  to  transfer  from 
the  image  in  his  mind  the  last  touches  to  his 
picture,  before  they  should  be  effaced  by  any 
rude  brush  from  the  world  without. 

The  babe,  that  lay  asleep  on  the  mother's 
lap,  with  its  little  head  slightly  raised  upon  her 
arm,  and  reclining  against  her  bosom,  was 
done  —  finished  exactly  to  the  wish  of  the 
artist.  He  could  find  no  part  where  to  set  the 
pencil  that  had  thus  completed  it,  without  hurt 
ing  the  beautifully  rounded  limb,  marring  the 
expression  of  some  feature,  or  spoiling  the  life 
like  hue  and  delicate  texture  of  the  fair,  half- 
transparent  surface,  beneath  which  he  almost 
imagined  he  could  perceive  the  vital  streams  in 
motion. 

Ricardo  sat  some  time,  with  the  brush  up  in 
his  hand,  surveying  the  picture,  as  if  too  much 
lost  in  admiration  of  the  child,  to  proceed  to 
finish  his  mind's  image  of  the  mother.  At 
length  he  drew  near,  and  cautiously  gave  the 
mouth  of  the  Madonna  a  few  strokes  of  the 
pencil,  the  effect  of  which  sent  a  thrill  to  his 


56 


heart.  By  involuntary  motion,  he  half-inclined 
his  cheek  and  ear  to  feel  and  hear  if  he  had, 
by  some  sudden  inspiration  unknown  to  him 
self,  imparted  to  his  piece  the  breath  of  life. 
He  raised  his  brush  to  the  eye,  which,  turned 
heavenward  and  fixed  in  a  rapture  of  devotion, 
looked  as  if  the  soul  was  passing  through  it 
to  the  Being  with  whom  she  held  communion. 
He  touched  it.  It  grew  brighter  and  more 
extatic,  while  the  mild  rays  of  the  morning  sun 
stole  timidly  in  at  the  moment,  through  a  small, 
uncurtained  part  of  the  window,  and  played 
upon  one  side  of  the  painting. 

The  artist  was  startled  at  the  expression  of 
the  eye,  and,  hastily  withdrawing  his  hand 
from  the  piece,  he  threw  a  quick  glance  at  his 
pencil,  as  in  doubt  of  its  being  the  one  he  had 
before  held ;  and  then,  instantly  dropped  it,  as 
if  he  had  found  it  dipped  in  something  un 
earthly,  and  forbidden  to  the  use  of  man.  As 
it  fell  on  the  floor  he  feared  to  look  at  it,  lest 
he  should  see  its  point  tipped  with  the  Prome 
thean  spark  ;  and  his  feet  were  drawn  back,  as 
if  to  avoid  treading  on  a  fiery  serpent. 

The  work  was  done.  The  picture  was  fin 
ished.  The  beau  ideal  of  the  artist  was  em- 


57 


bodied.  The  master  had  now  but  to  contem 
plate  and  admire  his  piece ;  and  he  beheld  it 
with  the  spirit  of  him,  who,  casting  his  eye 
over  his  own  proud  city,  exultingly  exclaimed, 
<  Is  not  this  great  Babylon  that  I  have  built  for 
the  house  of  my  kingdom,  by  the  might  of  my 
power,  and  for  the  honor  of  my  majesty  ? ' 

He  sat  motionless  before  the  painting,  sus 
pended  between  astonishment  at  the  execution 
of  his  own  hand,  and  a  kind  of  reverential 
rapture  into  which  the  subject  had  mysteriously 
thrown  him.  At  length,  with  a  tone  of  glad 
ness  and  triumph,  he  cried,  '  It  is  finished !  it 
is  finished!  I  have  mastered  the  piece  in  this, 
my  beautiful  work;  and  what  has  so  long 
been  the  object  of  my  mind's  eye,  has  at  last 
come  forth  from  the  canvas,  to  praise  me  as  its 
maker ! ' 

As  he  gazed  at  the  piece,  overcome  by  the 
intensity  of  his  feelings  at  the  success  of  his 
last  effort,  a  haziness  came  over  his  sight,  he 
gradually  lost  the  consciousness  of  his  own 
materiality,  feeling  himself  lulled  by  rocking, 
like  a  bark  on  the  ocean,  in  a  sea  of  wavy 
shadows,  till  his  head  drooped  over  to  the  side 
where  his  elbow  rested  on  a  small  table,  all 


58  THE  PAINTER'S  LAST  TOUCH. 

around  him  grew  dim  and  uncertain,  and  he 
was  lost  in  sleep. 

But  slumber,  which  had  so  often  been  ban 
ished  from  his  pillow  by  the  picture,  could  not 
chase  the  picture  from  its  master's  presence. 
It  was  still  before  the  eye  of  his  imagination, 
and  he  still  adoring  its  beauty  and  perfection. 

As  he  beheld  it  in  his  dream,  a  soft  halo, 
that  seemed  at  first,  faintly  kindling,  gradually 
beamed  out,  broad  and  bright  around  it ;  and 
the  figures  came  forth  into  the  relief  of  real 
life,  with  the  vividness  and  warmth  of  com 
bined  matter  and  spirit.  There  was  a  slight, 
heaving  motion,  like  that  of  respiration,  in  the 
breast  of  the  Madonna,  while  the  delicate  rose- 
tint  that  had  been  thrown  into  her  cheek  by 
the  pencil,  crept  slowly  over  its  bounds,  trans 
fusing  itself  into  the  edge  of  the  neighboring 
lily  ;  and  her  up-turned  eye  was  bright  with  a 
living  radiance  that  seemed  the  reflection  of 
light  from  another  and  brighter  world. 

Over  the  half-parted  lips  and  fair  forehead  of 
the  child  was  a  diffusion  of  fine,  silvery  mois 
ture,  like  that  which  sometimes  hangs  in  the 
balmy  air  of  a  bright  spring  morning,  but  is 
almost  too  light  and  thin  to  bear  the  name  of 


59 


vapor.  A  gentle  pulsation  was  going  on  in 
the  smooth  temple ;  and  pale  violet  lines  on  his 
neck  and  arms  showed  the  paths  of  the  warm, 
purple  current  that  coursed  beneath  the  sur 
face  ;  while  the  little  white  hand,  that  had  been 
thrown  up  with  out-spread  fingers  on  the 
mother's  bosom,  had  slidden  down  and  lodged 
in  the  folds  of  her  drapery. 

The  painter  looked  —  wondered  —  admired  ; 
and  in  ecstacy  exclaimed,  '  It  is  finished !  it  is 
finished ! '  By  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  in 
fant  was  aroused,  but  not  startled.  He  reached 
forth  his  little  white  hand  towards  the  artist; 
while  the  long,  silky  lashes  of  his  eye-lid  un 
wove  themselves  from  those  below  it,  and  the 
eye  was  turned  on  Ricardo  with  an  expression 
of  innocent  confidence,  heavenly  purity,  and 
sweet  peace,  that  touched  him  to  the  soul. 
That  look  of  unsuspecting  love  had  fallen  like 
sunlight  on  the  window  of  his  heart,  disclosing 
the  darkness  and  derangement  within,  where 
his  favorite  art  sat  supreme  as  a  god.  It  melted 
him  to  tears,  and  he  sobbed  aloud. 

His  weeping  brought  down  upon  him  the 
eye  of  the  Madonna,  with  a  look  of  benignity 
caught  from  the  world  to  which  her  spirit  had 


60  THE  PAINTER'S  LAST  TOUCH. 

been  raised,  and  in  the  voice  of  tenderness  and 
pity  she  thus  addressed  him  : 

1  Why,  Bicardo,  should  a  simple  shade  affect 
thee  so  much  more  than  its  blessed  original,  or 
all  that  has  taken  place  concerning  him  before 
whose  pictured  image  thou  art  now  weeping, 
ever  has  done  ?  Has  his  life,  his  suffering,  or 
his  death,  ever  softened  thee  to  tears  ? 

1  When  he  pronounced,  "  It  is  finished ! " 
there  was  deep,  awful,  glorious  import  in  the 
words.  Earth  felt  it,  and  trembled  to  her  cen 
tre,  while  the  pit  yawned  in  disappointment 
after  its  lost  prey.  The  rocks  felt  it,  and  their 
hearts  were  broken,  as  the  veil  of  the  temple 
was  rent  asunder.  The  meaning  of  that  sen 
tence  was  glorious,  as  the  redemption  of  a  fallen 
world  from  under  the  awful  frown  of  insulted 
Omnipotence,  and  man's  recovery  of  the  lost 
image  of  God.  The  enemy  of  souls  felt  it, 
and  his  head  was  bruised.  His  kingdom  was 
shaken  by  the  King  of  glory.  The  graves  felt 
it,  and  knew  that  they  must  yield  up  their  dead. 
The  gates  of  heaven  felt  it,  and  opened  to  the 
repentant,  dying  sinner,  that  he  might  that  day 
be  with  his  Lord  in  paradise.  Death  felt  it, 
and  was  swallowed  up  of  victorv ! 


61 


( Such,  Ricardo,  was  the  meaning  of  that 
solemn  declaration  which  thou  hast  borrowed 
from  the  lips  of  Him,  whose  word  is  life,  to 
apply  it  to  a  work  of  thine  own  ambitious  per 
formance,  on  which,  ere  the  sun  of  to-day  goes 
down,  thine  eye  may  be  forever  closed,  and  all 
with  thee  be  finished.  When  he  pronounced 
the  sentence,  it  was  not  the  work  of  a  mortal 
hand,  but  the  purpose  of  infinite  benevolence  — — 
of  an  eternal  God,  that  was  accomplished. 

'When  he  disrobed  himself  of  his  heavenly 
glories  to  assume  a  mortal  guise,  and  com 
menced  his  earthly  course,  in  the  form  of  the 
babe  of  Bethlehem,  it  was  not  for  worldly 
honor  — -  temporal  renown,  purchased  by  labor 
and  study  over  works  like  thine  ;  but  to  im 
press  on  the  soul  of  man  his  own  pure  spiritual 
image. 

'  No,  the  little  tender  frame  that  thou  hast 
here  depicted,  was  to  grow  up  for  a  life  of 
weariness  and  suffering ;  to  be  like  the  young 
balsam-tree,  spared  in  the  sapling,  that  in  its 
full  growth  and  vigor  it  may  pour  through  its 
own  wounds  a  healing  balm  for  others.  It 
was  to  fast  in  the  desert ;  to  wake  and  bend 
amid  the  midnight  gloom,  the  chill  mountain 


62  THE  PAINTER'S  LAST  TOUCH. 

air  and  nature's  solemn  stillness,  while  He, 
who  bore  it,  poured  forth  his  spirit  in  prayer  for 
his  enemies.  It  was  to  bow  in  the  garden, 
while  the  warm  life-stream  exuded  in  crimson 
drops  forced  through  the  delicate  pores  by  the 
agony  of  the  spirit  within,  as  it  stooped  and 
strove  to  lift  a  fallen  race  from  darkness,  wo, 
and  death,  to  light  and  life  and  blessedness. 
Its  portion  was  to  be  insult,  persecution,  ston 
ing,  and  a  crown  of  thorns  pressed  on  the 
throbbing  temples  by  an  infuriated  mob  of 
those,  whom  he  came  to  seek  and  to  save ; 
while  the  prayer  for  the  forgiveness  of  those 
who  had  platted  it,  was  followed  on  his  lips  by 
the  vinegar  and  the  gall  at  their  hands  ! 

'  But  thou  knowest  all,  Ricardo ;  thou  know- 
est  all,  from  the  scene  in  the  manger  to  that 
where  the  veins  were  opened,  and  these  violet 
lines  turned  white  by  the  points  of  the  Roman 
spears ;  when  the  fainting  voice  sounded,  "  It 
is  finished!"  as  the  rich  fountain  showered 
down  its  crimson  balm  for  the  soul  of  man,  to 
heal  the  hurt  of  which  he  was  dying.  Those  pre 
cious  drops !  rich  indeed  may  they  be  called, 
since  they  were  to  cure  the  bite  of  the  serpent, 
sin,  and  take  away  the  sting  of  death ;  to  pur- 


63 


chase  an  entrance  into  the  city  with  pearly 
gates,  and  golden  streets,  and  blessed  inhabi 
tants  ;  where  none  say,  "  I  am  sick ! "  and  there 
is  no  sorrow,  no  night ! 

'  Since  that  great  consummation,  ages  have 
rolled  on  to  those  beyond  the  flood.  Man  has 
been  swept  off,  generation  after  generation,  to 
taste  forever  the  sweet  or  the  bitter  fruits  of 
having  applied,  or  neglected  to  apply,  for  an 
interest  in  that  soul-reviving  blood ;  while  his 
mortal  part  has  mingled  with  the  elements,  to 
undergo  the  changes  of  nature,  till  he  who 
slept  the  sleep  of  infancy  on  the  bosom  of  a 
human  mother,  shall,  by  the  trump  of  his  angel, 
awaken  all  in  their  far-scattered  graves,  and 
assemble  them  for  judgment.  How  many  then, 
thinkest  thou,  will  be  found  to  have  pierced 
the  Lord  afresh  ? 

'  This  is  no  fancy  piece  —  no  painter's  fiction. 
The  scene  of  Calvary  has  passed ;  and,  if  the 
cast-off  shroud  and  the  forsaken  sepulchre  — 
the  prints  of  the  nails,  and  the  wounded  side, 
touched  by  the  incredulous  disciple,  did  not 
give  sufficient  pledge  that  the  other  shall  take 
place,  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  will  ere  long 
rise  up  in  testimony  to  the  truth  of  what  has 


64  THE  PAINTER'S  LAST  TOUCH. 

been  foretold  ;  some  to  the  resurrection  of  life, 
and  some  .... 

;  But  tell  me,  if  thou  art  not  a  believer  in 
these  things ;  if  thou  art  of  a  lineage  above 
the  race  whom  Christ  came  to  seek  and  save ; 
or  if,  as  thou  hast  sometimes  said,  death  be 
an  eternal,  dreamless  sleep,  why  art  thou  so 
moved  ? ' 

'  Oh !  that  eye,  that  eye ! '  said  the  painter, 
as  the  child  seemed  to  cast  another  look  upon 
him,  '  I  cannot  bear  its  glance ! ' 

'  Thou  canst  not  bear  the  regard  of  love, 
peace,  innocence  ! '  said  the  Madonna.  '  Were 
it  then  easier  to  meet  that  of  stern  justice  ? 
The  eye  which  once  saw  through  the  optic 
organ  of  a  babe,  is  the  same  that  looks  into 
the  councils  of  the  Most  High,  and  the  deepest 
recesses  of  the  human  soul.  It  has  never  been 
closed  on  thee,  Bicardo,  though  thou  hast  not 
till  now  felt  its  power  or  seen  its  light.  It  will 
one  day  fall  on  thee  in  that  of  the  Judge  of  an 
assembled  universe  of  spirits ;  when  all  that  has 
been  hidden  must  be  revealed ;  and  every  one 
who  has  had  his  portion  of  time  to  decide  his 
destiny  for  eternity,  must  undergo  its  scrutiny 
alone.  Then,  every  hour  must  be  accounted 


65 


for,  and  its  work  approved  or  condemned ; 
every  talent  that  was  lent,  weighed,  and  its 
revenue  demanded ;  every  secret  operation  of 
his  heart  who  stands  at  the  bar,  called  up  to 
give  in  its  testimony  for  or  against  him.  Each 
hidden  stab  which  conscience  has  received  will 
be  laid  open ;  all  her  stifled  cries  heard  with 
appalling  fulness  of  sound. 

'  When  he,  who  lay  a  feeble  infant  on  the 
lap  of  his  virgin  mother,  shall  appear,  coming 
in  the  clouds  with  his  angel  band ;  then  wilt 
thou,  Ricardo,  remember  how  much  more  of 
thy  precious  time  was  devoted  to  thy  favorite 
art,  from  a  vain  desire  to  please  the  human 
sight,  and  win  the  applause  of  creatures  fleet 
ing  and  dying  like  thyself,  than  ever  thou  hast 
given  to  copying  the  life  and  temper  of  him, 
whom  thou  must  take  up  thy  cross  and  follow, 
or  utterly  perish.  Thou  wilt  then  remember 
how  much  more  adoration  thou  hast  paid  to 
this,  thy  darling  picture,  than  to  him  whose 
birth-place  on  earth  was  pointed  out  by  the 
new-made  star  of  heaven.  Thou  wilt  also 
have  set  before  thee  thy  profane  use,  thine 
atheistical  perversion  of  the  sacred  volume, 
which  enshrines  the  spirit  of  God,  and  is  redo- 
5 


66  THE  PAINTER'S  LAST  TOUCH. 

lent  of  hope  and  life  to  man,  or  of  despair  and 
death,  as  he  himself  shall  decide;  and  thy 
having  come,  by  the  early  light  of  this  holy 
Sabbath  morning,  to  take  thy  pencil  and  beau 
tify  an  idol,  till  thou  couldst  say,  "  It  is  fin 
ished!" —  this  day  of  the  Lord,  consecrated 
to  his  service ;  this  peaceful,  hallowed  hour, 
when  the  tomb  was  first  found  broken  forever, 
and  he  who  was  slain  and  laid  therein  arisen 
and  walking  in  the  garden  among  the  dewy 
lilies! 

<  Yet,  what  would  this  frail  work  of  thy  per 
ishable  hand,  for  which  thou  art  trifling  with 
the  guide  to  heaven  and  bartering  eternal  trea 
sures,  be,  should  a  spark  of  fire  light  upon  it  ? 
Just  what  thine  own  death -sealed  form  would 
become,  should  its  vital  spark  go  out  —  ashes  ! 
ashes ! 

c  I,  Rlcardo,  am  thy  guardian  angel.  I  was 
appointed  by  him  from  whose  imaginary  eye 
thou  art  now  shrinking,  when  the  bud  of  thine 
existence  began  to  unfold,  to  attend,  to  watch 
over,  and  protect  thee ;  till  I  should  at  length 
bring  thee  safe  to  his  kingdom.  I  was  by 
thee  to  lift  the  soft  lid  of  thy  tender  eye,  when 
it  received  the  first  ray  of  this  world's  light, 


67 


and  I  shall  not  cease  to  be  with  thee,  till  I 
finally  close  it  to  all  sublunary  things. 

t  Faithful  to  my  mission,  I  have  appeared  to 
thee  in  many  forms,  and  spoken  to  thee  in  a 
thousand  voices ;  from  the  sweet,  low  tones  of 
love  and  mercy  to  the  loud  thunderings  of 
power  and  judgment.  I  have  wooed  thee  in 
the  whispering  zephyr  and  refreshing  breeze ; 
and  threatened  thee  in  the  roaring  tempest.  I 
have  smiled  on  thee  from  the  azure  skies,  the 
flowery  earth  and  the  limpid  streams ;  and 
frowned  on  thee  from  the  stormy  clouds  and 
the  gaping  gulf.  I  have  sought  to  lead  thee 
by  binding  about  thy  heart  the  ties  of  sweet 
affection,  and  to  startle  thee  by  snapping  them 
asunder.  I  have  come  before  thee  in  the  pale 
form  of  death  and  in  the  promise  of  a  glorious 
resurrection.  I  have  flushed  thy  cheek  with 
health,  and  faded  it  by  malady.  I  have  pointed 
both  at  blessing  and  affliction,  as  a  price  put  into 
thy  hand  to  get  wisdom,  and  have  even  entered 
into  thy  bosom  and  pleaded,  mourned  and  ex 
postulated  with  thee  in  the  voice  of  conscience, 
while  thou  wouldst  fain  have  silenced  it  by 
suffocation  or  opiate,  only  to  make  it  turn 
traitor  in  the  end,  the  great,  the  trying  moment. 


68 


All  these  ways,  and  many  more,  have  I  tried 
in  vain  to  turn  thy  feet  into  the  lowly,  peaceful 
path  that  leads  to  life.  Now  I  come  to  seek 
thee  in  a  new  form  ;  to  speak  to  thee  through 
the  work  of  thine  own  hand ;  and  I  must  do  it 
quickly,  as  all  here,  I  find,  is  destructible  and 
evanescent. 

'  Listen  then,  and  by  all  that  is  winning  in 
immortal  life  and  joy,  or  fearful  in  an  eternity 
of  despair  ;  by  thy  body,  that  must  soon  die ; 
and  by  thy  soul  that  must  live  forever,  go  and 
pour  out  thy  tears  —  go  and  kneel  and  lift  up 
thine  eye  there !  there  !  Ricardb,  there  !  ' 

As  the  Madonna  uttered  the  last  emphatic 
word,  she  reached  forth  her  hand  towards  the 
east  and  a  scene  which  had  suddenly  risen  to 
view  through  a  long  shadowy  vista ;  at  which 
her  finger  pointed,  while  her  form  and  that  of 
the  infant  melted  away  in  a  light  vapor,  that 
rose  over  the  picture,  and  nothing  remained  of 
them  but  her  lone,  white  hand,  stretching  from 
the  cloud,  and  still  pointing,  as  when  she  said 
<  there  ! ' 

The  figures  before  the  painter  had  dissolved ; 
his  chef-d'ceuvre  had  vanished  from  sight.  His 
eye  followed  in  the  direction  where  the  finger 


69 


pointed  for  something  whereon  to  fix,  to  make 
up  the  loss. 

He  looked  through  the  dim,  narrow  vista,  to 
a  scene  where  the  deep  gloom  of  a  darkened 
sky  over-hung  a  confused  mass  of  human 
forms,  and  among  them,  perceived  the  gleam 
ing  of  spears,  and  the  busy  motion  of  an  en 
raged  or  excited  populace. 

Here,  was  a  countenance  from  which  the 
wild  spirit  of  demon  malignity  looked  forth, 
and  there,  another  marked  by  a  soul  wrung 
with  the  bitterest  anguish.  Here  appeared  the 
attitude  of  active  fury,  and  there  that  of  deep, 
passive  woe.  Amid  the  group  of  weeping  fe 
males,  Ricardo  thought  he  discovered  one  face, 
which  he  had  somewhere  seen  before;  and 
when  the  wet  kerchief  was  again  removed,  he 
saw  it  was  that  of  his  beautiful  Madonna. 
But  ah,  how  changed!  Past  years  had  left 
their  marks,  and  present  sufferings  sat  heavily 
upon  it. 

A  little  beyond,  on  a  rising  ground,  and 
lifted  above  the  multitude,  as  ,the  painter  cast 
his  eye  onward,  he  beheld  the  awful  spectacle 
that  had  drawn  this  mingled  company  together, 
where  the  few  mournful  followers  of  him  who 


70 


said,  l  My  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world,'  seemea 
lost  in  the  hosts  of  him  who  declared,  c  My 
name  is  legion,  for  we  are  many.'  It  was  the 
crucifixion  in  all  the  freshness  and  fulness  of 
its  horrors.  The  soul  of  Blcardo  sickened  at 
the  appalling  view.  His  head  grew  dizzy ; 
he  reeled;  his  knees  smote  together,  and  his 
sight  was  lost ;  while  he  felt  the  earth  shudder 
ing  and  swinging  beneath  him,  and  heard  the 
tremendous  sound  of  nature  in  convulsions, 
mingled  with  shouts  of  malicious  human  tri 
umph  and  the  plaint  of  helpless  human  woe. 
Amid  this  dissonance,  the  sudden  peal  of  a 
deep-toned  bell  poured  upon  his  ear.  It  grew 
louder  and  nearer,  as  the  other  sounds  became 
fainter  and  more  remote,  and  at  length  died 
away  in  the  distance. 

1  A  bell?'  said  the  painter,  <a  bell?  Why, 
I  never  heard  of  this !  They  did  not  sound 
the  passing  bell ! ' 

The  act  of  speaking,  together  with  the  sound 
that  had  in  reality  reached  his  ear  from  abroad, 
aroused  him.  He  shook  off  the  leaden  remains 
of  slumber  and  opened  his  eyes  upon  the 
picture. 

The  rays  of  the  sun,  which  had  lighted  it 


71 


up  when  they  were  closed,  had  now  passed  off, 
and  there  the  painting  stood  before  its  master, 
finished  indeed ;  but  the  enthusiasm  attendant 
on  his  first  seeing  it  so  was  gone  like  the  sun 
beams,  yet  not  like  them  to  return,  but  beyond 
recall.  It  now  appeared  to  him  flat,  inane> 
unsatisfactory.  It  was  empty  imitation  —  a 
something  having  form  but  being  void !  There 
was  no  life,  nor  warmth,  nor  motion  —  no  spirit 
in  it !  He  could  touch  a  shadow  on  the  wall, 
and  feel  as  much  ! 

But  there  was  certainty  —  reality  in  the  sound 
of  the  clear-voiced  bell,  which  from  a  neighbor 
ing  temple  was  calling  aloud  to  assemble  the 
worshippers  of  Him  to  whom  the  day  belonged, 
for  the  service  of  the  sanctuary. 

Yes ;  there  was  certainty  in  the  sound,  and 
meaning  in  the  call  of  that  bell,  whose  tones, 
having  brought  the  artist  from  the  vision  of  a 
dream,  still  vibrated  on  his  ear,  as  if  commis 
sioned  to  awaken  him  to  something  more  than 
the  recovery  of  suspended  reason. 

4  And  shall  I  go  ? '  said  he,  '  shall  I  go,  in 
this  neglected,  unprepared  state  of  body  and 
of  mind,  and  present  myself  among  those  who 
have  long  been  awake,  and  all  alive  to  the 


holy  glories  of  this  consecrated  morning  ? 
They  have  their  feet  washed,  and  shod  with 
the  gospel  preparation,  for  the  sacred  courts  ; 
their  heads  are  anointed,  and  they  have  clothed 
themselves,  both  the  inner  and  the  outer  man, 
in  that  pure,  comely  attire  which  befits  the 
company,  the  house,  and  the  presence  of  Him 
whom  they  come  to  honor.  Shall  I  come  also 
among  them  who  thus  present  themselves  be 
fore  the  Lord  ?  Ah,  yes !  He  says  to  the 
weary  children  of  men,  "  Come  now,  and  I 
will  give  you  rest."  It  is  to-day,  not  to-mor 
row,  that  we  may  come.  He  says  to  the  self- 
neglected  wayfarer,  "  Come,  just  as  thou  art, 
and  put  off  thy  soiled  and  tattered  garments, 
and  I  will  give  thee  a  pure,  seamless  vesture, 
without  spot  or  wrinkle ! "  It  is  to  the  wan 
derers,  the  scatterlings  of  the  flock,  that  the 
Great  Shepherd  gives  out  this  tender,  forgiving 
call.  My  good  angel,  I  hear  thy  voice  once 
more.  It  comes  in  the  tones  of  the  Sabbath- 
bell.  I  will  obey  —  I  come,  I  come  ! ' 

Saying  this,  Ricardo  pressed  his  hand  on 
his  forehead,  as  if  to  quell  the  throbbings,  or 
blunt  the  acuteness  of  pain,  and  rose  to  depart ; 


73 


when  his  foot  was  set  upon   something  which 
rolled  beneath  it,  and  nearly  overthrew  him. 

4  Ah,  my  brush ! '  said  he,  '  this  is  not  the 
first  time  thou  hast  tripped  me  when  I  started 
on  some  good  purpose,  and  wouldst  fain  have 
cast  me  so  that  I  could  rise  no  more.  Often  hast 
thou  held  me  back,  and,  like  a  wizard's  wand, 
kept  me  within  thy  charmed  circle,  with  my 
lips  sealed,  and  my  whole  soul  devoted  to  thee 
and  thy  work  ;  while  others  were  gone  forth 
into  a  glorious  liberty,  with  their  hearts  tuned 
and  their  lips  vocal  with  the  praise  of  their 
Creator !  Often  hast  thou  bound  me  to  the 
babe  of  Bethlehem,  while  I  felt  not  my  need 
of  a  Redeemer,  and  disregarded  the  Messiah 
in  the  prototype  of  my  intended  copy.  My 
heart  has  been  thine,  not  his.  But  thy  charm 
is  broken,  thy  power  is  gone.  Thou  art  a 
fallen  idol,  and  beneath  my  foot.  Lie  there, 
deceitful  thing !  Thou  wilt  not  stop  me  now. 
Nor  canst  thou  restore  the  days,  which  thou 
hast  chased  away,  the  Sabbath  hours  that  have 
flown  off,  to  be  set  down  against  me  in  deeper 
shades  than  ever  thou  hast  laid,  and  to  remain 
thus  forever;  unless  forgiving  mercy  wipe  them 
out ! ' 


74 


Thus  apostrophising  his  innocent  pencil, 
and,  with  the  wonted  proneness  of  the  human 
heart  to  charge  its  own  faults  upon  some 
thing,  anything,  else,  making  the  instrument 
of  his  art  the  scape-goat  for  his  sins,  the 
unhappy  man  strode  with  a  determined  air 
across  the  apartment,  which  a  short  time  before 
he  had  entered  as  eagerly  as  one  starving 
would  enter  a  refectory,  and  passing  out,  fled 
from  the  door,  as  from  the  crater  of  a  volcano, 
bending  his  steps  towards  the  church. 

The  way  to  the  sanctuary  was  one  long  un 
trodden  by  his  feet,  and  when  he  reached  the 
house  the  sound  of  the  bell  had  ceased ;  the 
congregation  were  all  gathered  in,  like  a  flock 
within  the  fold,  and  he  felt  himself  in  an  awful 
stillness  and  solitude,  which  he  had  never 
before  experienced. 

<  A  lost  sheep,  indeed ! '  thought  he.  i  I  am 
out  in  the  wilderness,  —  away  from  the  Good 
Shepherd.  I  need  a  resting-place,  a  shelter, 
a  hand  to  feed  me.  The  wolf  from  which  I 
have  but  just  escaped  with  a  torn  fleece,  is  still 
near ;  and  where  is  my  refuge  ? ' 

He  crossed  the  empty  vestibule  alone,  and 
advanced  to  the  inner  door.  With  the  back  of 


75 


every  one  of  the  calm  assembly  towards  him, 
he  stole  noiselessly  in,  dropping,  unobserved, 
into  one  of  the  first  seats,  directly  under  the  or 
chestra,  feeling  that  he  was  indeed  the  last,  and 
behind  all  there.  His  eye  ran  up  the  long, 
silent  aisle,  to  the  altar,  and  rested  on  the  table 
spread  with  the  elements, — the  sacred  symbols 
of  the  Lord's  Supper.  At  the  same  moment, 
the  stillness  of  the  scene  was  broken  by  the 
gentle  swell  of  the  unseen  organ's  notes,  and 
the  voices  of  the  invisible  choir,  as  they  sang 
above  him : 


'  Hark !  't  is  Love  and  Mercy  calling, 

In  the  sounds  from  Calvary ; 
See  the  tears  of  pity,  falling 
In  the  blood  that  bathes  the  tree. 

' It  is  finished!  hear  him  crying, 

With  the  faint,  departing  breath, 
Who,  to  save  a  world,  is  dying, 
Thus  for  us  to  conquer  death. 

( Lo !  the  great  High  Priest  is  bending 

With  the  sacrifice  for  sin, 
That  the  temple's  vail  is  rending, 
As  he  bows  and  enters  in.' 


76 


'  And  are  these  calls  of  love  and  mercy 
to  me  ?  Were  the  sins  of  my  soul  borne  on 
that  sacrifice  ? '  thought  Ricardo,  as  he  leaned 
his  head  on  his  hand,  in  profound  meditation, 
till  the  lips  of  him,  who  was  to  lead  in  the  exer 
cises  of  the  morning,  were  opened  by  prayer. 

The  subjects  of  the  discourse,  which  fol 
lowed,  were  such  as  the  occasion  brought 
especially  to  view,  and  the  event  about  to  be 
commemorated  first  and  forcibly  suggested. 
The  mind  of  the  preacher  seemed  lifted  by  the 
sublimity  of  his  theme  to  an  almost  super 
natural  elevation,  and  kindled  with  divine 
light,  which  clothed  his  thoughts,  and  sent 
them  forth  with  a  power  irresistible.  He  com 
pared  the  promise  of  salvation  through  Christ-, 
offered  in  the  gospel,  to  the  eye  of  a  well  exe 
cuted  portrait,  which  is  directed  to  every  one, 
who  will  look  up  to  it,  as  fully  as  if  it  had  no 
other  object.  His  eloquence,  free  from  vain 
ornament  and  glitter,  was  glowing,  touching, 
and  bold,  as  becomes  the  integrity  of  a  fearless 
and  faithful  servant  of  God.  It  began  like  the 
clear  mountain  rill,  which  is  the  infancy  of  a 
mighty  river,  and  increasing  in  power  and 
grandeur,  seemed  sweeping  his  audience  along 


77 


to  look  upon  the  ocean  of  eternity.  He  dared 
not  to  twine  the  sword  of  the  Spirit  with 
wreaths  of  earthly  flowers,  to  spare  the  hearts 
of  his  hearers,  but  brought  it  forth  unsheathed 
and  bright,  as  it  had  been  put  into  his  hand  by 
Him,  from  whom  he  held  his  commission.  He 
muffled  up  the  truth  in  no  cloak  of  man's 
weaving  or  embroidery,  as  if  it  had  come  from 
its  author  with  deformity  which  the  skill  and 
delicacy  of  the  human  hand  should  conceal. 
He  presented  it  undisguised,  in  its  beautiful 
symmetry,  clothed  only  with  its  native  light; 
and  applied  it  so  warm  and  forcibly  to  the 
hearts  of  his  hearers,  it  could  not  fail  to  leave 
an  impression.  It  had  come  upon  the  soul  of 
the  artist,  and  he  could  not  shake  it  off.  He 
was  subdued  and  melted.  Overwhelmed  by 
a  sense  of  the  manner  in  which  he  had  spent 
the  better  part  of  his  life,  and  the  profane  use 
he  had  made  of  the  Word  of  God,  by  selecting 
from  it  his  first  subjects,  while  he  denied  its 
divine  authority,  and  contemptuously  smiled 
at  the  credulity  of  its  believers,  he  bowed 
before  the  mercy-seat,  in  sincere  contrition,  and 
deep  humiliation  of  spirit.  • 

1  And  I,'  thought  he,  '  have  been  spared  to 


78 


this  day,  a  cumberer  of  the  ground;  worse 
than  a  barren  tree.  Why  has  not  the  sentence, 
cut  it  down,  been  long  ago  executed  on  me  ?  I 
have  spread  out  my  foliage  as  a  shelter  for  the 
ministers  of  the  enemy  of  souls,  and  have  put 
forth  thorns  to  wound  the  followers  of  the 
Friend  of  sinners.  Like  the  deadly  Upas,  I 
have  diffused  poison  in  the  atmosphere  around 
me,  while  I  decked  myself  with  flowers,  to 
invite  the  passenger  to  come  and  pluck  them, 
that  he  might  inhale  their  odors,  and  die !  I 
have  perverted  the  sacred  volume,  whose 
Author  is  the  source  of  light  and  the  fountain 
of  goodness.  While  unable  to  ascribe  its  con 
tents  to  finite  mind,  I  jeered  the  thought  of  its 
divine  inspiration.  I  have  used  it  as  a  vast, 
unparalleled  field  of  beautiful  scenery  and  sub 
lime  imagery,  and  have  roamed  through  it 
with  sacrilegious  steps,  selecting  subjects  that 
were  drawn  by  the  hand  of  Omnipotence,  and 
glowing  with  unearthly  hues,  that  I  might  pro 
fane  them  with  my  unhallowed  touch.  I  have 
painted  the  mount  where  the  Law  of  God  was 
given,  while  I  trampled  on  that  Law,  and 
doubted  the  existence  of  a  God  above  nature. 
And  I  wonder  that  the  terrors  of  Sinai  have 


79 


not  scathed  me  forever.  I  have  pictured  the 
bush  of  Horeb,  and  kindled  it  with  strange  fire, 
till  I  know  not  why  a  glance  of  righteous  in 
dignation  from  His  eye,  who  once  lighted  it, 
has  not  consumed  me.  I  have  portrayed 
angels  running  on  errands  of  good  to  man, 
while  I  smiled  at  them  as  the  airy  creatures  of 
man's  disordered  brain.  While  I  painted 
forms  of  the  holy  prophets,  I  have  secretly,  nay, 
openly,  laughed  at  them  as  madmen.  Thus 
have  I  dabbled  with  my  brush,  in  the  very 
waters  of  life,  and  would  fain  have  made  them 
such  as  no  soul  could  drink.  And  oh,  insup 
portable  thought!  I  have  treated  as  ingenious 
fiction  the  life,  death,  and  resurrection  of  Him, 
to  whom  alone  I  can  now  fly  for  relief  from  all 
this  burden  of  guilt.  Yet,  blessed  Saviour, 
what  if  thou  hadst  not  died  for  my  sins,  and 
risen  to  be  my  advocate  ?  Is  there  not  hope 
through  thee,  in  Him,  who,  out  of  thee,  is  a 
consuming  fire  ?  Yes,  for  it  is  only  to  those 
who  "  shall  be  heirs  of  salvation,  that  he  mak- 
eth  his  angels  ministering  spirits."  And  hath 
he  not  given  one  to  minister  even  unto  me,  in 
all  my  sinful  ways,  to  this  hour  ? ' 

Such  was  the  appalling  review  of  his  past 


80  THE  PAINTER'S  LAST  TOUCH. 

life,  which  came  before  the  painter,  as  he  re 
tired  from  the  church,  when  its  services  had 
closed,  and  went  to  his  home  and  his  closet, 
with  the  devout  resolution  of  henceforth  living 
in  newness  of  life.  Disgusted  with  his  art,  on 
remembering  the  impious  uses  he  had  made  of 
it,  he  felt  that  he  could  no  longer  pursue  it,  to 
incur  the  penalty  of  remorse  it  must  inflict  as  a 
souvenir. 

He  had  experienced  the  mysterious  process 
of  having  a  heart  of  stone  taken  away,  and  one 
of  flesh  given  in  its  stead.  And  on  this,  he 
felt,  must  be  traced  a  likeness  of  its  giver,  — 
features  which  his  pencil  could  not  delineate. 
It  had  already  desecrated  too  much  that  testi 
fied  of  him.  He  became  a  new  man ;  and  he 
could  not  look  on  the  former  productions  of  his 
pencil  without  horror.  He  called  them  his  old 
works  of  darkness.  The  spirit  with  which  he 
executed  them  haunted  him  continually.  He 
seemed  to  see  its  malign  eye  gazing  at  him 
from  behind  the  canvas,  and  alike  through  the 
brightest  colors  and  the  heaviest  shades  of  the 
most  finished  pieces,  whenever  he  beheld  them, 
turning  his  past  glory  to  thorns  in  the  retro 
spection. 


THE  PAINTER'S  LAST  TOUCH.  81 

c  What,'  he  mentally  exclaimed,  '  but  my 
guardian  angel  has  been  between  me  and  the 
awful  deep,  beside  which  I  have  walked,  envel 
oped  in  shades,  along  a  fearful  precipice,  on  a 
crumbling  pathway!  What  but  the  wing  of 
this  heavenly  protector  has  borne  me  up,  when 
my  feet  were  ready  to  stumble  on  the  dark 
mountains,  and  saved  me  from  a  hopeless 
plunge  into  the  black,  wild  billows  of  endless 
despair!  How  shall  I  redeem  time!  How 
shall  the  lovely  features  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth 
be  copied  on  my  soul !  Teach  me,  O  spirit  of 
the  Holy  One!  for  I  am  become  as  a  little 
child.  My  pencil  cannot  do  this  work.  I  have 
given  the  Painter's  Last  Touch ! ' 

That  night  the  soul  of  the  Painter  was  re 
quired  of  him. 


THE  BROKEN  PRISM. 


A  SOB  shook  the  bosom  of  the  infant  boy,  as 
the  zephyr  shakes  a  leaf;  and  sorrow  had  come 
over  his  beaming  face  as  the  mist  before  a  star. 
A  tear  lay  below  his  full  blue  eye,  and  a  bright 
crimson  drop  tipped  his  small  white  finger. 
The  sparkling  fragments  of  a  broken  prism 
clinked  in  his  frock-skirt,  as  he  held  it  by  it's 
hem,  in  the  left  hand ;  and,  putting  forth  the 
other  with  a  look  of  horror  at  the  blood,  ran  to 
seek  his  mother. 

'  Molher!  mother!'  he  piteously  cried,  'take 
away  this  blood,  and  join  my  broken  play 
thing!  Mend  it!  or  I  cannot  cast  colors  round 
the  room,  or  make  pieces  of  rainbow  any 
more!  I  staid  where  you  bade  me:  I  sat 
upon  the  carpet,  or  leaned  against  the  sofa,  till 
the  wide  light  of  the  window  had  dwindled 
to  a  narrow  streak.  Then,  only  once,  I  left  the 


THE    BROKEN    PRISM.  83 

parlor,  and  carried  the  prism  to  the  door,  to 
catch  the  whole  sun,  and  make  larger  pieces  of 
rainbow.  As  I  stood  on  the  marble  step,  a 
beautiful  white  dove  came  and  lit  down  by 
me.  I  sprang  to  take  her,  but  she  was  gone  in 
a  moment ;  before  I  could  touch  her  feathers 
she  was  off  in  the  high  air!  The  prism  slip 
ped  from  me  and  fell ;  and  when  I  turned  to 
find  it,  it  looked  like  clear  water  sprinkled  on 
the  marble.  I  took  up  the  pieces  and  tried  to 
put  them  together,  but  they  all  had  sharp 
edges !  ~—  one  has  cut  my  finger !  Take  my 
hand  in  yours,  mother,  and  feel  how  it  aches. 
O,  still  the  pain,  and  join  this  broken  prism ! ' 

'  I  feel  all  thy  pains,  my  child,  and  will  bind 
up  the  wound ;  but  I  cannot  quell  its  anguish, 
nor  make  whole  the  lamented  prism.  Break 
ing  thy  promise  and  my  command,  thou  hast 
also  broken  thy  plaything.  All  this  sorrow,  for 
which  thou  hast  exchanged  the  joy  of  sporting 
with  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  is  the  fruit  of 
ONE  MISDEED!  But  let  the  pain  of  thy  hand, 
and  the  grief  of  thy  heart  be  laid  up  in  mem 
ory  for  future  good;  they  may  yet  prove  a 
treasure  to  thee.  As  long  as  thou  shalt  live, 
remember  this  drop  of  blood,  and  thy  mother's 


84  THE    BROKEN    PRISM. 

word  when  she  wiped  it  away.  Innocence, 
like  a  white  dove,  flies  from  the  hand  of  him 
whose  feet  are  turned  into  the  path  of  disobe 
dience  ;  and  he  goes  forth  to  sow  that,  whereof 
he  shall  only  reap  anguish  and  tears.  The 
fruit  of  error  is  bitterness ! ' 

Thus  the  mother  spake  to  her  boy ;  but  the 
rest  she  said  to  herself,  for  the  child  could  not 
understand  it. 

1  Poor  thing !  he  has  begun  betimes  to  find 
how  soon  our  brightest  joys  may,  in  their 
ruins,  become  instruments  to  wound  us.  By 
their  smoothness  do  they  slide  away  to  prove 
their  fragile  nature.  Their  very  polish  is  akin 
to  destruction! 

*  Hope  is  a  prism.  When  our  sun  is  un 
clouded,  we  see  in  it  all  the  beautiful  hues  of 
the  bow  of  promise ;  by  it  we  cast  them  on  the 
objects  around  us.  But  if,  like  this  frail  thing, 
whose  deceitful  fragments  have  drawn  tears 
and  blood  from  my  tender  boy,  our  hopes 
be  made  up  of  the  glistening  sands  of  earth, 
how  soon  may  they  be  dashed  to  atoms! 
Then  will  they  come  with  sharp  edges  to  cut 
keenly  across  our  heart-strings,  or  be  like  water 
that  is  spilt,  and  cannot  be  gathered  up ;  while 


THE    BROKEN    PRISM.  85 

the  dove  of  peace  flies  away,  and  leaves  our 
bosoms  desolate. 

'  O,  may  my  child  find  his  hope  in  that  me 
dium  through  which  we  see  the  light  of 
heaven,  —  the  pure,  enduring  crystal,  clasped 
between  the  covers  that  hold  the  eternal  Word, 
which  never  can  be  broken !  In  this  shall  he 
behold  the  power  and  glory  of  the  SUN  of  an 
unchanging  world.  It  will  enliven  the  things 
of  time  with  the  reflection  of  the  fair,  unfading 
colors  that  beautify  the  throne  of  Him  who 
placed  his  bow  in  the  heavens,  —  a  covenant 
sign  between  himself  and  his  creatures.  It  will 
delight  the  eye  of  his  soul  with  a  view  of 
Truth,  Justice,  Love,  Mercy,  and  Peace,  as 
they  blend  in  one  blessed  token,  to  remain  and 
brighten  when  the  heavens  are  passing  away, 
and  to  appear  in  the  fulness  of  its  beauty  and 
perfection,  when  there  is  a  new  heaven  and  a 
new  earth.  Then  will  the  spirit  that  once  took 
the  form  of  a  dove  be  ever  near  him,  with 
"healing  in  his  wings"  for  all  his  wounds, 
and  they  will  be  bound  up  by  the  careful  hand 
of  ONE  whose  love  passeth  even  that  of  a 
mother.' 


THE  OLD  ELM  OF  LEXINGTON. 


To  what  age  the  trees  that  adorned  the  cra 
dle  of  mankind  might  have  attained,  when  the 
father  of  our  race  first  opened  his  eye,  and  saw 
them  standing  around  in  their  shadowy  beauty, 
is  not  a  question  designed  for  present  discus 
sion.  Some  modern  geologists  and  theolo- 
gists,  however,  maintain  that  they  must  have 
been  very  old  indeed,  even  at  that  period. 

One  class  of  these  sages  base  their  argument 
on  the  supposition,  that  the  meek  penman,  in 
spired  and  employed  by  the  Creator  to  give 
the  history  of  his  wondrous  works  in  the 
heaven  and  the  earth,  was  so  lax  in  his  style, 
as  to  render  it  uncertain  whether  a  given  term 
of  time,  which  he  stated,  should  be  understood 
a  day  or  an  age ;  or  that  he  made  the  mistake  of 
using  the  former  for  the  latter,  in  his  account 
of  the  creation ;  that  the  *  six  days '  should 


THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON.  87 

have  been  written,  '  six  ages '  or  '  eras '  of  in 
definite  duration. 

This  manner  of  expounding  the  sacred  writ 
ings  may  account  for  the  headlong  spirit  of 
worldliness  and  Sabbath-breaking  witnessed  in 
our  day. 

Others  charge  Moses  with  anachronism, 
affirming  positively  that  Adam  was  not  the 
first  man.  They  tell  us  that,  after  giving  a 
regular  account  of  the  five  consecutive  days 
from  the  beginning,  Moses,  before  he  took  up 
the  story  of  man,  as  we  have  it,  on  what  he 
calls  the  sixth  day,  for  some  cause  not  re 
vealed,  dropped  a  series  of  ages  into  a  chasm, 
where  they  passed  silently  from  sight  in  the 
abyss ;  while  he  continued  on,  to  tell  the  tale 
of  Adam's  creation,  in  the  order  of  the  first 
six  days,  and  as  if  he  were  the  first  human 
occupant  of  the  earth.  And  these  lost  ages, 
together  with  their  multifarious  concerns,  they 
deem  it  their  especial  province  to  go  down  into 
the  unknown  deep  and  hook  up,  to  be  lectured 
upon,  for  the  edification  and  use  of  society, 
and  to  establish  unquestionable  evidence  of 
their  own  ability  to  correct  the  law-giver  of 
Israel. 


88  THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON. 

The  theory  of  these  deep-thinkers  may  elu 
cidate,  or  it  seems  at  least  in  harmony  with  the 
restless,  burning  zeal,  for  adventure  and  discov 
ery,  which  animates  our  age. 

A  third  and  somewhat  mingled  class,  in 
order  to  end  all  question  and  care  about  what 
Moses  wrote,  the  prophets  spake,  and  David 
sung,  in  a  peaceful  and  summary  way,  put  the 
whole  volume  of  the  Old  Testament  out  of 
sight  as  obsolete,  except  in  such  prudent  por 
tions  as  they,  the  spiritual  physicians,  may 
administer,  distilled  through  the  alembic  of 
their  own  wisdom  and  understanding.  Some, 
indeed,  direct  their  pupils  to  the  remedy,  with 
out  letting  them  know  their  disease.  They 
must  believe  in  the  new  dispensation  as  they 
can  comprehend  it,  without  inquiring  into  the 
cause  of  their  need  of  it,  by  whom  it  was 
promised,  or  through  whom  the  coming  light 
was  foreshown. 

But  we  are  conservatives  of  that  old-fash 
ioned  school  of  the  simple  and  credulous,  who 
would  not  grow  wiser  than  our  teachers  are, 
while  we  have  Moses  and  the  Prophets  .to 
establish  our  belief  in  the  Evangelists  and 
Apostles.  And  we  trust  that  a  long  train  of 


THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON.  89 

saints,  who  lived  and  died  before  the  age  of 
steam  and  railroad  celerity,  did  make  their 
way  to  heaven  by  that  low  and  narrow  path, 
which  they  were  content  to  tread  through  the 
valley  of  patience  and  humility. 

We  believe  that  Adam  was  the  first  man, 
who  enjoyed  the  trees  which  his  Creator  had 
made  to  grow,  '  pleasant  to  the  sight,  out  of 
the  ground,'  not  many  days  before  he  found 
himself  in  existence  among  them  in  paradise. 

Though  he  lost  his  blissful  abode  for  a  fruit, 
and  transmitted  its  bitter  taste,  and  the  forfeiture 
of  life  and  Eden  to  all  his  descendants ;  still  he 
retained  his  love  of  the  trees;  and  this  has  also 
descended  to  his  offspring  in  all  lands  and 
ages  from  that  day  till  now.  And  through  all 
the  wanderings  of  man,  and  the  heat  or  rude 
ness  of  his  ways  on  earth,  this  love  has  re 
mained  to  console  him.  A  stately  green  tree 
has  ever  been,  to  the  savage  and  the  civilized, 
a  delightful  and  venerable  object. 

Free  from  that  jealous  spirit  of  rivalry  which 
decides  on  the  merits  of  the  works  of  men's 
hands,  and  that  variance  of  ideas  of  beauty, 
which  makes  a  son  of  the  forest  see  more  wis 
dom  and  perfection  in  the  construction  of  his 


90  THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON. 

bark  wigwam,  than  in  the  marble  palace,  and 
think  his  tawny  woodland  charmer  fairer  than 
the  blonde,  whose  complexion  combines  the 
lily  and  the  rose,  people  of  every  nation,  tribe, 
and  tongue,  meet  in  taste  at  the  majestic  green 
tree,  making  it  the  central  attraction  of  univer 
sal  admiration.  All  have  enjoyed  it  as  a  can 
opy,  and  consecrated  it  as  a  monument  and  a 
temple.  Its  shadow  has  been  made  the  sanc 
tuary  for  communion  between  the  God  of  na 
ture  and  the  soul,  and  from  the  view  of  its 
verdant  branches,  the  brightest  and  holiest 
thoughts  of  man  have  budded  and  opened  in 
clusters  of  blossoms,  to  send  up  odors  sweet 
and  acceptable  to  heaven. 

In  attempting  to  enumerate  the  signal  trees 
at  which  we  might  point,  as  having  peculiar 
claims  to  our  notice,  the  mind  would  become 
bewildered  in  a  forest  rising  up  thick  around 
it,  beginning,  perhaps,  at  the  aged  family  tree 
at  our  own  door,  and  reaching  back  to  the 
olive  tree  where  the  dove  plucked  the  branch. 
We  should  see  in  it  the  tent  of  Abraham,  the 
grave  of  Deborah,  Jacob  hiding  the  gods  and 
jewels  of  his  household,  the  heathen  erecting 
his  altar,  and  the  Israelite  his ,  the  dwelling 


THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON.  91 

of  the  Prophetess,  and  the  angel  standing  by 
the  sleeping  Prophet  with  his  cake  and  cruise 
of  water  .... 

Touching  present  individual  feelings  of  pri 
vate  or  domestic  arborary  attachment,  few.  pro 
bably,  may  be  found,  having  lived  to  advanced 
age,  or  even  past  their  minority,  who  have  not 
dear  and  hallowed  associations  embalmed  in 
their  choicest  recollections  with  some  old  fami 
liar  tree.  There  is  one,  perhaps,  in  the  history 
of  every  individual.  And  in  this  does  memory 
sit  and  sing,  like  a  bird,  cling  to  it  as  ivy,  or 
sigh  as  an  air-harp,  at  the  waking  of  the  winds 
of  life  and  fortune,  that  in  other  days  have 
played  on  the  heart-strings,  in  the  tender  zephyr, 
swept  them  in  the  refreshing  breeze,  or  chilled 
and  wrung  them  in  the  gloomy  storm,  and  the 
adverse,  rending  blast.  This  is  the  green,  ral 
lying  point ;  the  place  of  reveille  for  visions  of 
the  past. 

Even  the  tree  that  stood  by  the  school-house 
of  our  childhood,  in  whose  shade  we  were 
grouped  with  our  happy  little  play-mates,  and, 
like  the  squirrel,  '  shelled  our  nut  at  liberty,'  is 
remembered  when  much  that  was  taught  us 
by  our  instructor  is  forgotten,  and  the  school- 


92  THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON. 

house  and  the  tree  are  numbered  but  among 
the  things  that  were.  And  he,  who  has  been 
the  scholar  of  maturer  years,  will  never  lose 
the  image  of  that  one  that  blazed  and  sparkled 
before  his  study  window,  at  the  rising  sun  of 
a  winter  morning,  with  its  leafless  branches 
decked  out  with  diamonds,  silver  drops,  and 
brilliants  of  every  hue.  The  remembrance  of 
that  beautiful  'splendor-tree'  will  cool  his 
fevered  spirit,  when  throbbing  with  the  hottest 
strife  of  life's  concerns,  long  years  after  those 
icy  jewels  have  been  melted,  and  returned  to 
dress  the  boughs  in  verdure  that  have  shaded 
him  in  the  summer  day,  or  checkered  his  room 
and  his  door-yard  with  the  moon-light  of  the 
silent  evening  hours. 

We  know  that  to  ancient  Athens  there  came 
a  Sylla,  who  respected  not  the  beautiful  groves 
of  plane  trees  which  the  Lacedemonians,  when 
they  ravaged  all  Attica,  had  reverently  spared, 
because  they  imbosomed  the  Academy  and  the 
Lyceum,  but  recklessly  caused  them  to  be  cut 
down  and  wrought  up  into  machinery.  And 
we  own  that  the  spirit  of  our  own  times  and 
country,  in  some  instances,  like  that  of  the 
Roman  invader,  lays  an  innovating,  marring 


THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON.  93 

and  mercenary  hand  on  some  of  the  loveliest 
features  of  natural  beauty  in  our  land.  It 
annihilates  or  changes  the  face  of  the  dearest 
scenery  around  old  homes ;  and  even  home 
itself,  where  the  affections  had  quietly  nestled, 
is  broken  up  like  a  dream,  as  it  goes  on,  cutting 
sheets  of  water  into  shreds,  strangling  rivers  in 
the  course  where  their  Maker  set  them  out  and 
bade  them  run,  threshing  the  mountains  and 
making  the  hills  as  chaff,  and  profaning  some 
of  the  most  sacred  places.  Even  the  sanctu 
ary,  in  some  instances,  is  not  spared ;  but  stands 
an  illustration  of  opposition  to  the  injunction, 
'  Make  not  my  Father's  house  a  house  of  mer 
chandise.' 

Yet,  amidst  this  working  up  and  casting 
down  ;  this  heated,  vapory,  whirling  system  of 
things,  when  now  and  then  some  one's  chariot 
wheels,  on  the  high  road  to  fortune  or  to  fame, 
take  fire  from  their  own  velocity  and  consume ; 
and  here  and  there  a  modern  Phaeton  enlight 
ens  the  world  with  the  glare  of  his  fatal  vain 
glory,  and  the  beacon- blaze  of  his  self-destruc 
tion,  we  still  have  our  trees  standing,  cool  and 
majestic,  in  their  shadowy  grandeur,  in  units, 


94  THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON. 

groups,  lines,  and  groves,  all  over  the  settled 
portions  of  our  land. 

We  have  the  good  old  favorite  tree  where 
the  individual  may  come  in  person  or  in  mem 
ory  and  refresh  a  solitary  heart  in  seclusion, 
and  that  around  which  the  hearts  of  a  family, 
a  city,  a  state,  or  the  whole  nation  may  cluster, 
with  equal  interest. 

Till  within  a  few  years,  Pennsylvania  had 
her  TREATY  ELM,  which  she  revered  almost  as 
a  father,  while  it  lived ;  and,  since  it  fell  be 
neath  the  weight  of  age,  she  still  preserves  it 
in  the  form  of  canes,  boxes,  and  trinkets — relics 
retained,  as  we  keep  a  lock  of  hair,  or  other 
memorials  of  a  departed  friend.  And  well 
may  its  memory  be  cherished,  for  in  the  shade 
of  its  outspread  arms,  was  made  what  is  stated 
to  be  the  only  treaty  entered  into  between  the 
Europeans  and  the  Indians  without  an  oath, 
and  the  only  one  that  was  kept  inviolate ! 

Connecticut  has  her  CHARTER  OAK  ;  and 
Ohio,  her  darling  flowery  BUCKEYE,  from 
among  whose  roots  her  queen  city  sprang  up 
at  the  stroke  of  the  pioneer's  axe,  all  adorned 
in  her  beauty,  as  Minerva  from  Jupiter's  head, 
at  the  blow  of  the  hatchet  that  cleft  it.  But, 


THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON.  95 

perhaps  no  tree  in  our  land,  save  the  cypress  at 
Mount  Vernon,  has,  from  the  associations  with 
its  history,  so  wide  and  general  a  claim  to  the 
interest  of  the  patriotic,  and  to  the  naturalist, 
as  a  curiosity,  as  the  one  under  present  con 
sideration. 

In  the  pleasant  New  England  village  of 
Lexington,  Massachusetts,  near  its  centre,  about 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  battle  ground,  and 
close  to  the  door  of  the  old  parsonage  house, 
is  this  most  singular  tree ;  this  '  Reverend  Elm ; ' 
which  probably  deserves  the  title  more  than  any 
the  poet  ever  knew.  It  now  numbers  a  hundred 
and  forty-four  years,  and  is  immensely  large. 
In  the  year  1701,  the  Rev.  John  Hancock,  then 
minister  of  Lexington,  planted  the  seed  whence 
it  sprung  beside  his  dwelling.  The  body 
rose  erect  several  feet  from  the  ground,  then 
branched  out  into  three  distinct  trees.  They 
grew,  not  very  tall,  but  exceedingly  large,  reach 
ing  over  the  whole  highway,  and  hanging  their 
graceful  canopy  far  over  the  wall  on  the  oppo 
site  side. 

In  a  gale  of  October,  1804,  the  division 
nearest  the  house  was  split  from  the  bole 
partly  down ;  but  it  was  closed  with  an  iron 


96  THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON. 

bolt,  and  continued  to  grow  like  the  others,  till, 
by  a  violent  tempest  in  September,  1815,  it 
was  cast  down,  and  in  a  direction  that  brought 
it  exactly  along  the  whole  front  of  the  house, 
at  a  convenient  distance  from  the  door  to  serve 
as  a  fence.  But,  not  separated  from  the  trunk 
entirely,  it  continued  to  draw  nourishment  from 
the  root  of  the  general  stock,  and  thus  grew  on 
still  in  its  horizontal  position,  supported  by  its 
limbs  at  a  sufficient  height  to  give  free  access 
to  the  house,  and  between  them  forming  a 
beautiful  arched  gateway  to  the  entrance.  Now, 
forty  feet  from  the  trunk,  near  what  would 
have  been  the  top  had  it  stood,  a  scion  has 
struck  down  and  taken  root,  and  a  straight, 
young  tree  flourishes  from  it ;  so  that  altogether, 
it  forms  a  rare  natural  curiosity  of  great  beauty, 
fastened  in  the  ground  at  both  ends,  and  im- 
bowering  the  venerable  old  mansion  of  piety 
and  patriotism  in  an  arbor  such  as  no  other 
dwelling  can  boast. 

When  at  Lexington,  several  years  ago,  at 
tending  the  funeral  solemnities  of  the  soldiers 
who  fell  in  battle,  when  their  remains  were 
removed  from  the  burying-ground  and  en 
tombed  under  the  monument,  I  visited  the 


THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON.  97 

ancient  parsonage  house  and  its  tenants.  It 
was  then  occupied  by  .two  venerable  ladies, 
unmarried  daughters  of  the  Rev.  Jonas  Clarke, 
who  dwelt  there  alone,  the  only  survivors  of 
his  family,  and  near  relatives  of  the  Hancocks ; 
both  were  then  very  aged ;  one,  I  should  think, 
an  octogenarian.  The  day  was  to  them  an  excit 
ing  and  solemn  one.  <  Sixty  years  ago,  to-day,' 
said  one  of  them,  '  I  saw  those  soldiers  buried, 
just  as  they  were  taken  up  where  they  fell/ 
In  showing  me  the  tree,  and  giving  its  history, 
she  told  me  she  remembered  seeing  the  precise 
spot,  over  which  the  green  branches  of  the 
fallen  part  are  spread,  sprinkled  with  the  blood 
of  the  wounded  soldiers,  who  ran  along  from 
across  the  fields  and  past  her  father's  door,  in 
the  direction  of  the  prostrate  trunk,  from  its 
head  to  the  main  body. 

This  house,  it  seems,  was  the  resort  of  the 
patriots,  Samuel  Adams  and  John  Hancock, 
for  deliberation  and  council,  during  the  stormy 
times  of  the  Revolutionary  movements;  and 
here  were  they  concealed,  when  proscribed  by 
the  British  governor,  as  guilty  of  unpardonable 
crime.  In  its  cellar,  beneath  the  vegetables,  all 
the  rich  plate  and  other  precious  treasures  of 
7 


98  THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON. 

Hancock's  house  were  safely  hidden,  and  pre 
served  from  being  made  the  spoils  of  war.  My 
venerable  informant  told  me  much  more  of  the 
concerns  of  that  day  than  can  have  a  place  here. 
She  afterwards  furnished  me  with  the  dimen 
sions  of  the  elm  at  that  time,  which  I  quote. 

'  Circumference  of  the  body,  two  feet  from 
the  ground,  twenty-one  feet;  extension  of  the 
branches  from  east  to  west,  six  rods,  five  feet ; 
from  north  to  south,  five  rods,  six  feet.'  It  has 
since  been  growing  and  flourishing  till  its  size 
is  greatly  increased. 

When  I  visited  the  Misses  Clarke,  I  passed 
under  this  living  gateway,  and  in  their  neat 
parlor,  of  the  olden  style,  with  many  other 
interesting  matters,  found  two  beautiful  por 
traits  of  the  Hancock  family,  originals  of  Cope- 
ley,  to  win  my  admiration. 

Since  then,  both  these  hospitable  ladies  have 
departed;  and  their  house,  which  had  never 
been  occupied  but  by  ministers  and  their  fami 
lies,  is  left  tenantless.  All  are  gone !  but  the 
tree  remains ;  the  recumbent  part  still  clinging 
to  the  main  body  for  life,  and  lying  in  the  atti 
tude  which  it  took  so  many  years  ago,  when  it 
bowed  like  a  worshipper  of  old,  and  fell  gently 


THE    OLD    ELM    OF    LEXINGTON.  99 

along  over  the  gate-posts  of  that  last  temporal 
abode  of  departed  righteousness. 

It  is  a  beautiful  sight;  and  to  a  painter  it 
must  be  an  inspiring  one,  on  a  summer  morn 
ing,  particularly  if  there  has  been  a  heavy  dew 
or  a  shower  the  previous  evening.  As  you 
approach  the  house  where  it  faces  the  east,  you 
can  see  but  a  small  part  of  any  window  in  the 
whole  front,  through  the  lively  green  foliage  that 
imbowers  it,  growing  out  of  this  vegetating  bar 
rier,  moving  gently  to  the  zephyr,  and  sprinkled 
with  clear  water-drops,  that  sparkle  to  the 
morning  sun  like  glittering  gems  strewed  in 
by  spirit  hands  among  the  verdant  leaves. 

Wrapped  in  its  green  mantle,  this  part  of  the 
triune  elm  lies,  like  a  reclining  monarch,  in 
love,  honor,  and  guardianship  of  the  house  and 
the  ground. 


THE  HAUNTED  FOREST. 


OLD  things,  that  have  passed  away,  are  fast 
becoming  new.  Ancient  fashions  and  arti 
cles  of  dress  are  brought  up  from  oblivion, 
and  resuscitated.  Antique  pieces  of  furniture, 
their  coevals,  are  hunted  out  in  their  hiding- 
places,  in  the  dark  corners  of  dilapidated, 
poverty-stricken  buildings,  where  they  seemed 
long  ago  to  have  settled  in  their  final  rest, 
beneath  the  thick  drapery  of  many  generations 
of  spiders,  and  dragged  back  to  light.  The 
different  members  of  sets  of  plate  porcelain, 
delph,  glass,  and  other  wares,  which,  like  those 
of  a  family,  have  long  been  separated  by 
the  shifting  and  chances  of  time  and  fortune, 
and  have  changed  their  uses  and  their  stations, 
as  they  have  survived  or  changed  their  owners, 
are  sought  after  with  the  zeal  of  Laban  for  his 
images.  They  are  evoked. from  their  hermit 


THE  HAUNTED  FOREST.         101 

seclusion,  and  set  as  household  gods,  in  splen 
did  edifices,  to  shine  with  more  than  seven-fold 
pristine  brightness. 

Cabinets,  tables,  chairs,  and  their  et  ceteras 
return  on  then*  rickety  limbs  from  the  dust  and 
shades  of  past  centuries,  and,  after  revival  and 
rejuvenescence  from  the  scraper,  and  being 
clothed  upon  with  a  new  coat  of  .  varnish, 
reprove  the  love  of  change  and  want  of  taste, 
which  succeeded  their  early-day  glory,  and 
cast  them  into  obscurity,  by  taking  the  highest 
places  in  favor  and  in  station.  It  is  an  era  of 
vision.  The  chattels  of  our  ancestry  arise  and 
come  forth,  joint  to  joint,  from  their  burial 
places. 

But  this  mania  search,  and  eager  desire  after 
antiquities,  is  not  confined  to  the  physical  alone, 
nor  to  the  once  good  and  useful.  With  the 
aid  of  foreign  importation  of  old  absurdities, 
and  impious  doctrines,  free  of  duty  or  custom 
house  inspection,  and  the  strength  and  speed 
of  our  iron  horse,  with  his  more  than  Archi 
medes-  head,  knowing,  not  only  how  to  move 
the  world,  but  also  where  to  put  it,  namely, 
everywhere,  and  of  course  turning  the  heads  of 
the  people  in  certain  instances,  we  have  relics 


102  THE    HAUNTED    FOREST. 

of  an  antiquity  far  more  remote  than  the  days 
of  our  traceable  ancestors. 

The  arts  of  Simon  Magus,  of  the  seven  sons 
of  Seva,  and  of  the  damsels  who  'brought  their 
masters  much  gain  by  soothsaying,'  are  newly 
got  up,  and  flourish  in  our  enlightened  day,  for 
equally  holy  purposes  as  in  their  beginning. 

Perhaps,  then,  it  will  not  seem  surprising 
that  such  a  title  as  the  present  little  story  bears, 
should  be  seen,  spectre-like,  standing  at  the 
head  of  a  chapter.  It  will  not  appear  strange 
that  some  of  the  apparitions  that  were  cotem- 
porary  with  the  proprietors  of  the  venerated 
movables  alluded  to,  and  might  have  been 
familiar  with  them  of  old,  gliding  about  among 
them,  in  their  shadowy  visits  to  the  apartments 
they  once  furnished,  should  re-appear,  to  claim 
their  share  of  notice  and  respect,  as  antiques. 

Some  of  them  may  have  been  themselves 
the  first  and  rightful  owners  of  these  temporali 
ties.  They  may  have  used  them  for  the  con 
venience  of  the  corporeal  with  which  they  once 
were  burdened.  For,  even  here,  in  the  pure 
Pilgrim  Land,  if  tradition  and  history  speak 
truth,  there  have  been,  not  only  witches,  but 
genuine,  unsophisticated,  Puritanical  ghosts!  — 


THE  HAUNTED  FOREST.         103 

some  visible,  some  audible,  and  others  that 
could  make  themselves  either,  or  both,  at  will. 

Yet,  the  good  old  Governor  Winthrop  has 
left  on  imperishable  record  a  fact,  which  seems 
to  be  an  episode  to  the  general  description  and 
solemn  demeanor  of  these  mysterious  people  of 
vision  and  auditory.  In  his  notes  of  one  year, 
he  has  it :  — '  This  year  one  James  Everell,  (a 
sober,  discreet  man,)  and  two  others,  saw  a 
great  light  in  the  night  time,  near  Muddy 
River.  When  it  stood  still,  it  flamed  up,  and 
was  about  four  yards  square :  when  it  ran,  it 
diminished  into  the  figure  of  a  swine,  and  ran, 
swift  as  an  arrow,  towards  Charlton  ;  and  so,  up 
and  down,  two  or  three  hours.  They  had  come 
down  in  their  lighter ;  and,  when  this  was  over, 
they  found  themselves  carried  back,  against 
wind  and  tide,  three  miles,  to  the  place  they 
started  from.'  * 

Now,  the  pious  chief  magistrate  gives  not  a 
word  to  indicate  his  opinion  of  this  strange 
sight;  but  probably  he  never  thought  of  ex 
plaining  it  by  natural  philosophy.  Nor  could 
he  have  supposed  it  a  revenant  of  one  of  the 
race,  whose  form  it  appeared  in,  feloniously 

*  See  '  Winthrop's  Notes,'  &c. 


104         THE  HAUNTED  FOREST. 

slain.  Without  doubt,  he  conscienciously  be 
lieved  himself  to  be  recording,  for  the  good  of 
posterity,  a  luminous  trick  of  the  arch  deceiver, 
to  make  a  brilliant  exhibition,  by  veiling  his 
'miscreated'  form  in  a  covering  of  b'ght.  Yet, 
could  his  mind  have  shot  forward,  and  looked 
into  the  future,  even  to  this  date,  he  would 
have  seen  that  his  note  was  of  an  ante  fact;  or 
a  type  of  the  brilliant  lights  that,  in  our  day,  are 
produced  by  the  '  taking  off'  of  the  multitudes 
of  the  bristly  people  that  fall  in  the  west,  to 
enlighten  our  northern  darkness  with  their 
beaming  apparitions  on  our  tables  and  mantels, 
to  the  great  relief  and  peace  of  leviathan  on  his 
billowy  bed,  when  spirit  lights  of  a  more  ethe 
real  nature  do  not  supersede  them. 

But  the  '  spirit  of  the  Pilgrim '  has,  in  cer 
tain  instances,  been  thought  so  tenacious  of 
this,  his  'new  world,'  as  .to  prefer  it  to  one 
newer,  even  after  his  body  has  disappeared 
from  the  face  of  its  earth;  and  to  return,  in 
phantom  form,  to  linger  around  its  old  familiar 
scenes,  as  loath  to  quit  them ;  or  sometimes, 
perhaps,  unable  to  rest  till  it  had  revealed  im 
portant  facts  of  interest  or  of  guilt,  by  leading 
those  nearest  concerned  to  the  investigation  of 
subjects  allied  to  them. 


THE  HAUNTED  FOREST.         105 

It  was  never  the  red  man,  in  his  shroud  of 
skins  and  feathers,  who  appeared  as  the  in 
jured  or  the  guilty  ghost,  whatever  might  have 
been  the  wrongs  he  had  suffered,  or  the  ven 
geance  he  had  taken ;  it  was  always  the  pale- 
faced  European,  or  his  Ethiop  slave,  who  re 
appeared. 

If  these  spectral  visitants  were  somewhat 
laid  with  the  felling  of  the  forest-trees,  and,  as 
population  and  knowledge  increased  in  the 
cities,  were  scattered  to  the  purlieus ;  if  they 
were  thence  driven,  to  take  refuge  in  the  small 
villages,  and  the  new  and  thinly- settled  country 
towns,  till  they  finally  dwindled  away;  still, 
they  left  behind  them  a  long  train  of  ghost- 
stories,  which  did  not  entirely  subside,  until 
a  very  recent  date.  And  the  sacred  truth  of 
all  these  was  most  religiously  avouched  by 
every  narrator's  grandmother,  or  some  other 
pious  chronicler,  who  knew  all  about  the  visit 
ations,  and  even  the  suspected  crimes  for 
which  they  were  permitted. 

The  following,  however,  is  of  a  different 
character  from  these,  and  more  substantially 
founded.  When  I  had  just  entered  my  teens, 
I  heard  an  elderly  gentleman  from  Vermont, 


106         THE  HAUNTED  FOREST. 

when  on  a  visit  to  this  place,  relate  the  story  in 
its  principal  facts,  to  my  parents  ;  as  having 
happened  in  his  own  town,  to  his  own  per 
sonal  knowledge ;  himself,  I  think,  being  one 
of  the  parties  at  the  opening  scene.  It  has  often 
occurred  to  me,  when  hearing  of  supernatural 
appearances ;  and,  a  few  years  ago,  I  for  the 
first  time  told  it  to  a  friend,  in  a  conversation 
which  touched  on  subjects  of  the  phantom 
kind.  To  my  surprise,  the  following  week, 
when  I  went  to  hear  him  lecture  before  a 
lyceum,  I  found  myself  listening  to  the  facts  I 
had  told  him,  woven  into  his  lecture  on  appari 
tions,  witches,  optical  illusions,  and  the  like. 
This  first  suggested  to  me  the  idea  of  giving  it 
a  written  form,  in  my  own  style ;  but,  as  the 
things  narrated  took  place  sixty  years  ago,  in 
the  Green  Mountain  State,  (then  denominated 
{ the  New  State,')  which  was  a  very  different 
place,  and  its  inhabitants  different  people  from 
what  they  are  at  the  present  day  ;  so,  too,  did  a 
tract  of  its  land  present  the  aspect  of  a  wilder 
ness,  which  has  since  budded  and  blossomed 
as  the  rose. 

Sixty  years  ago,  on  the  high-road  that  led 
through  a  tract  of  dense  forest  ground,  and  on 


THE  HAUNTED  FOREST.         107 

the  skirt  of  that  forest,  in  a  thinly  settled  town 
ship  of  Vermont,  there  stood  an  inn,  offering 
such  accommodation  and  refreshment  to  the 
weary  traveller,  as  the  time  and  the  place  may 
be  supposed  to  have  afforded. 

The  landlord,  an  astute,  honest-faced,  two- 
handed  Yankee,  in  the  subtlest  sense  of  the 
word,  secularly  obedient  to  the  apostolic  in 
junction,  was  not,  indeed,  <  forgetful  to  enter 
tain  strangers ; '  and,  while  attending  to  the 
supply  of  their  creature  comforts,  he  often  en 
tertained  them  with  food  for  the  mind;  still 
looking  to  recompense  of  the  reward. 

He  had  a  curious  set  of  stories  to  tell  his 
guests,  to  make  them  slow  to  quit  his  premi 
ses  ;  and,  though  a  rubicund,  full-faced,  broad- 
shouldered,  short,  rotund  figure,  that  looked  as 
if  matter  had  prevailed  in  the  composition  of 
his  obese  person,  almost  to  the  exclusion  of 
spirit,  he  still  had  sagacity  enough,  stored  away 
somewhere  beneath  his  knit  cap  of  green  yarn, 
to  know  just  what  arrow  would  hit  the  mark. 
He  made  his  bar-room  a  cheerful  and  comfort 
able  resort,  not  only  to  the  weary  traveller  from 
afar,  but  also  to  his  widely  scattered  neighbors 
and  fellow-townsmen,  who,  returning  home 


108         THE  HAUNTED  FOREST. 

from  their  hard  day-labor,  loved  to  break  the 
monotony  of  the  way  by  dropping  in  to  in 
quire  what  news  had  come  from  the  lower 
towns,  or,  down  below , —  their  comprehensive 
term,  applied  to  all  between  Vermont  and  the 
salt  sea.  Here,  too,  they  frequently  regaled  them 
selves  with  that  i  cup  o'  kindness,'  reeking  and 
hissing  from  the  recent  immersion  of  the  hot 
poker,  at  the  hand  of  Captain  Barney,  which, 
in  these  temperate  times,  will  probably  never 
be  brought  up,  even  as  an  antique,  namely  — - 
the  foaming1  mug1  of  flip.  Thus  the  inn  be 
came  at  once  a  resting,  drinking,  and  gossip 
ing  place. 

1  Landlord,'  said  a  tall,  gentlemanly -looking 
equestrian  traveller,  one  evening,  as  he  rose 
from  the  supper-table  and  brought  the  sides  of 
his  superfine  surtout  together  on  his  breast, 
with  the  air  of  one  about  to  depart,  '  Landlord, 
will  you  give  me  your  bill  and  have  my  horse 
brought  round?' 

'  Sir,'  said  the  shrugging  host,  assuming  a 
very  solemn  and  knowing  look,  '  Sir,  you 
surely  don't  intend  to  go  through  the  dark  for 
est  to-night  ? ' 

*  And  why  not,  Sir  ? '  replied  Mr.  Barkeley, 


THE  HAUNTED  FOREST.         109 

el  have  important  business  that  requires  my 
presence  at  W  early  in  the  morning.  The 
evening  is  clear  and  pleasant,  though  there  is 
no  moon,  and  as  to  darkness,  my  good  Bright 
could  see,  though  it  were  black  as  herself.  She 
is  sure  and  light-footed,  fleet  as  a  leopard,  and 
gentle  as  a  lamb  ;  she  will  soon  skim  over  the 
ground.' 

4  Blessed  be  her  eyes,  if  they  do  not  see  too 
much !  blessed  be  her  eyes,  if  they  do  not  see 
too  much,  sir ! '  said  Barney.  <  Can  she  stand 
a  fright  ? ' 

*  Too  much  of  what !  a  fright  from  whom  ? ' 
said  Mr.  Barkeley,  '  You  talk  darkly,  sir.' 

*  You'll  have  light  enough  to  show  you  what 
I  mean,  when  you  get  into  the  depth  of  the 
forest,'  said  Barney.     <  I  mean  to  ask,  if  your 
horse  can  outrun  a  spirit !  and  to  say  that,  if 
she  does  not  see  too  much  of  another  world's 
inhabitants  for  even  a  beast  to  look  on  without 
terror,  I  mistake,  and  will  entertain  you,  scot 
free,  when   you  come   back>  if   ever  you   do 
come  alive.     Do  you  know  that  you  must  go 
directly  over  the  haunted  ground  ? ' 

'  There  is  no  haunted  ground,'  said  Mr. 
Barkeley,  drawing  on  his  gloves,  '  except  where 


110  THE    HAUNTED    FOREST. 

a  guilty  conscience,  or  a  superstitious  imagina 
tion  makes  it  such.  I  have  no  fears  of  the 
dead :  the  good  have  no  desire  to  return ;  and 
if  they  did,  it  would  only  be  for  good;  the 
wicked  are  in  too  sure  a  prison ;  and,  as  to 
the  living,  I  have  given  none  cause  to  do  or 
wish  me  evil.  I  do  not  fear  your  spectres? 

By  this  emphatic  speech,  the  attention  of  the 
several  guests  was  drawn  towards  the  traveller 
from  the  different  parts  of  the  room,  where 
they  were  imitating  the  polished  Athenians,  in 
their  desire  to  hear,  or  to  tell  some  new  thing, 
much  more  closely  than  by  their  looks  and 
attitudes;  and  a  knowing  expression  of  one, 
and  a  significant  shake  of  the  head  by  another, 
evinced  that,  had  they  been  an  empanneled 
jury,  and  life  or  death  at  issue,  the  stranger 
must  have  lost  his  case. 

*  You  wouldn't  feel  quite  so  stout-hearted,  if 
you'd  seen  what  I  have,'  said  a  brawny  young 
wood-cutter,  in  a  blue-striped  frock,  with  his 
axe  beside  him. 

*No,'  said  the  traveller,  smiling,  'if  I  had 
seen  as  many  trees,  standing  to  stare  me  in  the 
face  till  I  could  lay  them  by  the  axe  at  the  root, 
as  you  have,  I  think  I  should  not.  But  what 


THE    HAUNTED    FOREST.  Ill 

is  it  that  you  have  seen  so  wonderful,  young 
man?' 

<  Oh !  that's  the  very  question ;  that's  the 
very  thing  that  nobody  can  tell!'  replied  the 
rustic.  i  But  I  wish  it  was  nothin'  worse  than 
trees  for  me  to  level.  I  did  n't  see  the  white 
ghost  that  has  scared  so  many ;  but  I  did  see 
something  from  the  very  infarnal  regions,  risin' 
straight  up  through  the  ground,  all  wrapped  up 
in  fire,  that  did  n't  shine  about  and  give  light 
as  the  fire  of  this  world  does.  It  seemed  as  if 
it  was  burnin'  in'ard  to  devour  the  soul  that 
wore  it,  like  a  blanket,  hot  enough,  I  should 
think ;  and  it  had  dark  spots  on  it,  like  stains, 
as  if  blood  had  spouted  on 't,  and  all  the  flames 
where  it  went  could  n't  burn  'em  out.  No,  I 
didn't  see  the  white  figger,  that  sometimes 
stands  near  t'other,  and  close  to  the  road ;  the 
one  that  was  murdered,  I  s'pose.  But  Uncle 
Ned  seed  it  once,  and  so  did  a  good  many 
more.  'T  was  bad  enough  for  me  to  see  the 
fiery  one.' 

« I  was  a  coming  home  one  dark  night,  think 
ing  of  nothing  on  airth  but  the  length  of  the 
road  and  my  supper,  and  how  I  wished  I  could 
strike  into  the  wood  and  get  to't,  by  goin'  across, 


112  THE    HAUNTED    FOREST. 

instead  o'  stretching  all  the  way  round.  Grow 
ler  was  playing  along  by  my  side,  when,  all  at 
once,  he  stopped,  and  went,  "  wooh !  wooh  ! 
wooh  ! "  I  turned  to  see,  over  t'  other  shoulder, 
what  he  was  at;  and  there  stood  what  I've 
told  you  of,  right  against  me,  but  a  little  in  from 
the  road  among  the  dark  trees  and  bushes. 

< 1  looked  and  looked,  till  my  eyes  struck 
fire ;  and  I  begun  to  think  I  was  goin'  to  kindle 
up  too ;  and  I  thought  Growler  seemed  to  see 
something  that  was  strange  about  me,  for  he 
growled  and  whined,  and  acted  so,  that  I  took 
to  my  heels,  and  he  with  me,  dodging  some 
times  between  'em,  and  sometimes  before  and 
sometimes  behind  me ;  while  my  feet  went, 
"  tunk,  tunk,  tunk,"  like  a  bear's  feet,  and 
sounded  as  if  the  ground  all  round  was  hol 
low  ;  and  my  heart  thumped  just  as  loud,  and 
burnt  like  a  live  coal.  But  my  axe  was  light 
as  a  feather.  I  believe,  if  I  'd  dropped  it  into 
the  spring,  it  would  have  swum.  But  I  did  n't 
look  back ;  for  I  'd  no  notion  of  bein'  turned 
into  a  pillar  of  fire  and  brimstone,  nor  bit  by 
the  sarpent  of  the  wilderness.  So  I  cut  on  till 
my  breath  failed ;  and  I  do  n't  know  whether 
my  head  or  my  heels  gave  out  first;  but  down 


THE  HAUNTED  FOREST.         113 

I  swamped,  and  forgot  every  thing.  I  didn't 
know  what  had  become  of  me.  But  by-and- 
by  I  began  to  come  back  to  my  senses,  when 
the  first  thing  I  felt,  was  some  great,  warm, 
heavy  weight,  laid  right  across  me.  I  did  n't 
know  whether  I  could  move,  or  was  fastened 
down  forever;  but  I  thought  I'd  see.  So  I 
moved  a  foot  a  little,  and  then  got  the  use  of 
my  hand.  I  put  it  out  to  feel  what  was  on 
me ;  when  the  first  thing  I  touched  was  Grow- 
ler's  paw ;  and  glad  was  I  to  find  it  was  n't  the 
paw  of  the  evil  one « ' 

*  May  you  never  be  more  under  it  than  at 
that  moment,'  said  Mr.  Barkeley,  snapping  the 
thread  of  the  boor's  story.  *  Keep  clear  of  his 
power  and  you  will  never  need  to  fear  ghosts. 
Our  guide-book  through  the  wilderness  of  this 
world  prescribes  a  perfect  antidote,  which  it 
tells  us  "  casteth  out  fear,"  "  because  in  all  fear 
there  is  torment,"  as  you  yourself  have  experi 
enced.' 

'  But,'  said  another  sitter-by,  with  a  seriou& 
air,  'many  have  seen  strange  sights  on  that 
spot,  who  would  n't  tell  any  thing  false  for  their 
right  hand ;  and  who  were  no  more  under  tire 
power  of  the  evil  one  than  the  people  are  down 
8 


114         THE  HAUNTED  FOREST. 

below,  in  Boston  and  thereabouts,  where  they 
had  been  to  trade,  when  they  were  frightened 
by  the  apparitions  as  they  went  honestly  home, 
feeling  that  they  had  cheated  nobody,  however 
they  had  come  off  themselves ;  and,  that  if  sin 
does  "  stick  between  the  buyer  and  seller,  like 
a  nail  in  the  joints  of  a  wall,"  it  did  n't  stick  on 
their  side  of  the  bargain.  Sometimes  a  tall 
white  figure  stands  near  the  road,  and  a  little 
from  it  the  one  that  Zeb  saw.  Some  foul  deed 
must  have  been  done  there.' 

*  Gentlemen,  good  evening,'  said  the  travel 
ler,  turning,  and  inwardly  smiling  at  the  credu 
lity  of  the  simple-hearted  group  on  which  he 
closed  the  door  of  Captain  Barney's  inn. 

And  now  is  he  out,  on  his  gallant  black 
steed,  that  curvets  and  dances  beneath  him, 
with  feet  light  as  a  Mercury,  as  she  tunes  herself 
for  the  forward  pace,  and  then  strikes  off  at  full 
-peed  into  the  depth  of  the  forest.  l  What,' 
says  he  to  himself,  'can  these  strange  people 
ha\e  conjured  up  as  a  scarecrow  to  themselves 
and  others  ?  Ignorance  is  indeed  the  mother 
of  superstition,  and  thus,  the  grandmother  of  a 
thousand  bugbears,- — the  very  one  whose  au 
thority  makes  these  vulgar  stories  all  so  true!' 


THE  HAUNTED  FOREST.         115 

Thus  meditating,  he  proceeds  rapidly  till  he 
has  gained  the  heart  of  the  forest ;  when,  sud 
denly  he  perceives  unusual  symptoms  of  reluc 
tance  to  forward  motion,  with  a  blowing  and 
sheering  off,  in  his  trusty  Bright.  He  urges 
her  on ;  but  her  inclination  is  backward  or 
oblique,  and  her  hind  feet  are  crushing  the 
leaves  and  bushes  that  border  the  road-side. 
What  can  she  see  ?  Surely  she  has  not  a 
guilty  conscience,  nor  a  superstitious  imagina 
tion.  She  is  well-bred  too ;  but  she  trembles, 
puffs,  and  brings  all  her  feet  together  for  a  side- 
wise  spring. 

At  this  moment  the  eye  of  her  rider  has 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  tall  white  object,  stand 
ing  near  the  road,  and  a  little  beyond  it,  of  one 
of  strange  aspect,  presenting  at  once  brightness 
and  blackness ;  and  the  more  he  views  it  the 
more  luminous  it  seems  to  grow.  Determined 
to  pass,  he  touches  the  satin  side  of  the  quiver 
ing  Bright  with  the  spur.  By  one  spring  she 
has  cleared  the  ground,  and  darted  forward 
from  under  him  as  an  arrow  from  the  bow. 
At  the  same  instant  an  arm  from  the  white 
figure,  smiting  the  front  of  his  hat,  has  cast  it  off 
backward ;  while  he  is  quietly  lodged  on  a  tuft 


116          THE  HAUNTED  FOREST. 

of  brakes  by  the  way-side,  between  it  and  his 
departing  horse,  with  one  gloved  hand  plunged 
into  a  mass  of  wet,  spungy  turf,  to  investigate 
his  condition  and  the  cause  of  it  at  his  leisure. 

The  flying  feet  of  Bright  sound  terribly; 
and  the  click  of  her  shoes  on  the  stones  in  her 
way,  seems  like  the  last  ticking  of  Time's  old 
family  clock,  to  the  confused  ear  of  her  as 
tounded  owner,  as  she  gallops  off  through  the 
lone  wilderness ;  then  tacks,  and  comes  whin 
nying  at  a  distance  for  her  master,  and  stands, 
scraping  with  her  hoofs  the  bound  of  the  en 
chanted  ground,  which  she  dares  not  overstep. 

Now  hideous  shrieks,  like  those  of  a  woman 
or  a  child  in  distress,  break  from  the  thicket 
close  by  the  grounded  traveller.  These  are 
answered  from  another  point  by  a  wicked- 
sounding  laugh,  '  ha,  ha,  ha ! '  and  this  again 
by  a  hollow  hooting,  that  comes  in  to  fill  the 
dismal  round,  as  if  the  spirits  of  darkness  were 
exulting  in  his  distress  and  celebrating  his  fall 
with  a  malignant  glee.  He,  like  the  young 
wood-cutter,  begins  to  question  whether  he 
shall  ever  be  an  upright  man  again;  and  feels 
that  it  is  one  thing  to  buckle  on  the  armor,  and 
quite  another  to  wear  it  victoriously  through 
the  fight. 


THE    HAUNTED    FOREST.  117 

He  does  not  know  but  Zeb's  axe  might 
swim  here,  since  he  could  sink  so  low,  and  his 
good  Bright  be  so  wrought  upon,  as  to  cast  off 
her  master  and  forsake  him  in  the  very  moment 
of  need.  But  he  reassures  himself,  as  a  single 
combatant  with  many  horrors,  throws  down  his 
muddy  glove  as  a  challenge,  and  rising,  gropes 
for  his  absent  hat ;  that  he  may  not  share  the 
fate  of  Absalom,  should  he  ever  be  reinstated 
in  the  saddle.  In  doing  this,  he  comes  round 
to  a  quick  and  full  eclaircissement  of  the  whole 
matter. 

Near  the  road-side,  with  a  few  light,  low 
bushes  at  its  foot,  stands  a  fair  and  erect  white 
birch  tree;  its  bark  of  uncommon  whiteness 
and  smoothness  on  the  body,  free  of  limbs  to 
a  height  somewhat  above  that  of  man's  stature. 
Then,  branching  out  widely,  some  of  its  boughs 
reach  partly  over  the  passage,  and  several  so 
low  that,  by  a  slight  elevation  from  the  jump 
of  his  horse,  the  rider's  hat  came  in  contact 
with  one  of  them  and  was  thus  dislodged. 
The  other  mysterious  object  is  also  stripped  of 
its  terrors.  It  stands  revealed,  the  decaying 
trunk  of  an  old  forest  tree,  whose  aged  head 
and  withered  limbs  were  long  ago  struck  off 


118         THE  HAUNTED  FOREST. 

by  Time  and  his  tempests  ;  and  which  now,  in 
its  perishing  state,  has  become  in  part  that 
phosphorescent  material  so  common  in  decay 
ing  vegetable  substances,  particularly  in  the 
stumps  of  trees,  as  they  moulder  away,  and 
familiarly  called  light-wood. 

The  birch,  though  in  the  day-time  not  dis 
tinguishable  from  many  others  in  its  neighbor 
hood,  is  yet  so  located  as  to  appear  at  least, 
ambiguous  at  a  slight  glance  from  those  seek 
ing  horrors  in  the  solemn  night-hour ;  and  in 
such  cases  here,  as  in  others,  one  coward's 
story  has  become  the  mother  of  many. 

Light  is  a  wonderful  dispeller  of  fear.  Those 
who  passed  this  way  by  day,  were  so  familiar 
with  the  view  of  the  white  birches  around, 
seen,  as  they  could  not  be  from  their  distance, 
in  the  shades  of  night,  as  never  to  suspect 
that  they  were  in  the  presence  of  the  apparition  ; 
while  the  fiery  spectre,  like  many  other  objects 
of  physical  and  moral  vision,  lost  its  brightness 
before  the  face  of  day. 

Mr.  Barkeley  took  his  affrighted  horse  kindly 
by  the  bridle,  and  soothing  her,  as  the  young 
hero  of  Macedon  did  his,  when  he  turned  his 
head  from  the  shadow,  remounted  and  pursued 


THE  HAUNTED  FOREST.         119 

his  way,  leaving  the  melancholy  night  birds, 
the  owls  and  whip-poor-will,  to  serenade  the 
apparitions  with  their  horrible  concert. 

*  And  so,'  thought  he,  *  this  is  the  ground 
which  the  cunning  old  tavern-keeper  holds  for 
the  simple  to  spring  his  game !  When  I  re 
turn,  I  shall  make  an  explanation  that  will 
break  some  of  the  meshes  of  his  net,  and 
deprive  him  of  many  silly  birds  he  has  been  in 
the  habit  of  catching  as  night-lodgers.' 


THE  GRAVE  OF  L.  E.  L 


[ '  I  took  the  first  opportunity  to  steal  away, 
to  look  at  the  grave  of  L.  E.  L.,  who  died  here, 
(Cape  Coast  Castle,)  after  a  residence  of  only 
two  months  ;  and  within  four  months  after  be 
coming  the  wife  of  Governor  McLean.  *  * 
********  jn  fl^  Open  area 

of  the  fort,  at  some  distance  from  the  castle- 
wall,  the  stone  pavement  has  been  removed  in 
several  spots,  and  replaced  with  plain  tiles. 
Here  lie  buried  some  of  the  many  British  offi 
cers  who  have  fallen  victims  to  the  deadly  at 
mosphere  of  the  region,  and  among  them  rests 
L.  E.  L.  Her  grave  is  distinguishable  by  the 
ten  red  tiles  which  cover  it.  Daily  the  tropic 
sun  blazes  down  upon  the  spot.  Daily,  at  the 
hour  of  parade,  the  peal  of  military  music  re 
sounds  over  her  head,  and  the  garrison  marches 
and  countermarches  through  the  area  of  the 


THE    GRAVE    OF    L.    E.    L.  121 

fortress,  nor  shuns  to  tread  upon  the  ten  red 
tiles,  any  more  than  upon  the  insensible  stones 
of  the  pavement.'] — Journal  of  an  African 
Cruiser. 

WHERE  is  thy  lovely  shrine  of  clay, 

Sweet  sister  of  the  Lyre, 
Since  passed  it's  light  so  swift  away, 

When  heaven  recalled  it's  fire  ? 
Where  is  the  veil  thy  spirit  wore  ? 

I  know,  alas,  too  well, 
On  Afric's  strand,  what  passes  o'er 

The  dust  of  L.  E.  L. 

My  saddened  soul  within  me  weeps, 

That  no  kind  power  would  save 
The  form  of  genius  there  that  sleeps, 

From  that  unholy  grave. 
And  when  the  half-indignant  blush 

Would  on  my  cheek  appear, 
'T  is  backened  by  the  sorrow-gush, 

That  bathes  it  with  a  tear. 

Dead  warriors,  in  their  final  rest, 

Her  couch  of  earth  surround ! 
Rude  soldiers,  trampling  o'er  her  breast, 

Their  loud  reveille  sound. 
The  daily  drum  and  clang  of  arms, 

The  march,  the  stern  command, 
Pass  o'er  her  form,  whose  music  charms 

The  pure  in  every  land. 


122  THE    GRAVE    OF    L.    E.    L. 

'T  is  meet  to  lay  bold  warriors  there, 

Beneath  their  last  parade ; 
But  not  that  tender  woman  share 

The  ground  where  these  are  laid. 
The  blazing  tropic  sun  may  shower 

His  fiery  darts  on  them ; 
But  o'er  her  breast  some  lovely  flower 

Should  bow  on  flexile  stem. 


Yet  she,  who  her  sweet  harp  inwreathed 

With  fair,  undying  flowers, 
To  touch  the  soul  whene'er  it  breathed, 

And  gave  the  world  its  powers  — 
She  sleeps  in  noisy,  foreign  ground, 

O'erhung  by  burning  skies, 
With  no  green  grass,  or  tree,  or  mound, 

To  mark  where  LANDON  lies ! 


Four  months  a  bride  —  two  moons  within 

Those  grim  old  castle  walls  ; 
Then  laid  in  death,  amid  the  din 

That  o'er  that  court-yard  falls ! 
Her  heart,  the  home  of  peace  and  love, 

Of  truthfulness  and  trust, 
Has  not  a  footing  for  the  dove 

To  light  above  its  dust ! 


And  now,  in  that  unpeaceful  grave, 

Forsaken!  left  behind! 
By  him  to  whom  herself  she  gave, 

Heart,  hand,  and  glorious  mind ! 


THE    GRAVE    OF    L.    E.    L.  123 

But  clattering  arms,  and  soldier's  tramp, 

Though  borne  afar  by  fame, 
Have  no  dishonor  e'er  to  stamp 

On  her  far-honored  name. 

That  name  was  England's  praise ;  it  shone, 

A  star,  throughout  the  world, 
Where'er  her  royal  tongue  is  known — 

Her  haughty  flag  unfurled. 
And  will  not  England's  parent-love  — 

Will  not  her  pride  and  power, 
Her  gifted  daughter's  dust  remove 

To  some  cool,  native  bower  ? 

No  squaring  art,  in  marble  strong 

Should  rear  her  measured  tomb ; 
But  o'er  her  gush  the  wild  bird's  song, 

Leaves  spread,  and  young  flowers  bloom. 
Yet,  L.  E.  L.,  thy  name,  on  earth 

Immortal,  cannot  die ! 
Sweet  Poesy  embalms  thy  worth, 

Where'er  thine  ashes  lie. 

And  may  some  abler  hand  than  mine 

Thy  sweeter  requiem  give ; 
And  amaranth  with  cypress  twine, 

To  bid  thy  memory  live ! 
Thy  voice  is  hushed  to  mortal  ear, 

Thy  form,  a  broken  lyre ; 
But  shining  hosts  thy  numbers  hear,. 

Where  seraphs  form  the  choir. 

June  27,  1845. 


THE   CEMETERY  OF  THE  EAST,  MONT  LOUIS,  OR 
PERE  LA  CHAISE* 


WHERE  is  he,  who  in  the  course  of  his  life 
has  never  lost  a  friend  ?  I  am  not  that  happy 
one.  The  grave  has  devoured  many  very  dear 
to  me ;  and  now  it  has  just  snatched  from  me 
a  college  companion  and  friend,  to  whom  I 
was  united  by  ties  of  the  sweetest  intimacy. 
One  of  our  comrades  has  apprised  me  of  the 
fatal  event,  by  coming  to  request  my  presence 
at  the  obsequies. 

Our  friend's  residence  was  in  the  rue  St.  An- 
toine ;  consequently  his  mortal  remains  are  to 
be  borne  to  Pere  La  Chaise. 

We  follow  the  funeral  carriage  in  that  pro 
found  silence  and  religious  reflection,  which,  it 
seems  to  me,  should  ever  be  observed  in  these 
sad  ceremonies. 

*  Translated  from  the  French. 


THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST.  125 

We  enter  the  cemetery  by  the  gate  fre 
quented  for  the  last  few  years,  on  the  Boule 
vard.  This  is  well  done.  The  old  one  was 
too  niggardly  for  a  place  that  holds  within  its 
walls  so  much  of  memory  and  of  glory. 

We  have  seen  the  first  shovel-full  thrown  on 
those  cold  relics  !  And  oh,  what  thoughts  does 
that  little  portion  of  earth  inspire  ! 

But  why,  on  the  brink  of  this  funereal 
vault,  where  all  mortal  schemes,  hopes,  and 
passions  are  to  be  swallowed  up  —  why  do 
these  greedy  grave-diggers  come,  rudely  to  tear 
us  from  sorrows  thus  legitimate,  by  meanly 
bargaining  for  the  price  of  a  service,  at  which 
one  is  in  despair  ? 

If  there  is  any  of  that  religious  meditation 
and  that  solemn  silence,  which  ought  to  reign 
in  these  places,  or  even  an  idea  that  can  be  put 
to  flight,  they  will  attempt  it. 

A  venerable  priest  has  sprinkled  the  lustral 
water  on  the  grave.  A  distinterested  friend 
has  made  the  tears  of  all  the  assistants  to  flow, 
by  an  extemporaneous  discourse,  and  all  is  fin 
ished  All  is  finished !  What  a  word ! 

My  friend  and  I  have  withdrawn,  and  stand 
apart  from  the  numerous  group  of  those  who 


126  THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST. 

formed  the  escort.  *  Let  us  leave  them,'  said 
I,  '  they  are  going,  without  doubt,  to  drown 
their  grief  in  wine,  by  dining  at  Morel's,  at  the 
barrier  of  Almond-trees.  I  would  not  imitate 
them.  I  find  it  a  singular  mania  which  the 
people  have  adopted,  to  terminate  a  burial,  the 
most  austere  and  imposing  of  all  earthly  cere 
monies,  with  libations  to  the  god  of  the  grapes, 
and  bacchanalian  songs.' 

<  And,  what  wouldst  thou,  my  dear  ? '  said 
he.  c  Earth  itself  is  but  a  vast  tomb  ;  and  they 
who  dance  upon  it  trample  under  foot  the 
ashes  of  the  dead.  I  know  not  what  original 
has  said,  with  justice,  that  life  is  a  fantastical 
book,  composed  of  black  leaves  and  white 
ones,  in  nearly  equal  numbers,  which  an  un 
skilful  binder,  without  regard  to  order,  has  con 
fusedly  stitched  together.  And  here  is  precisely 
the  reason  why  the  impression  of  a  scene  like 
the  present  is  abruptly  effaced  by  one  of  plea 
sure,  which,  in  its  turn,  must  fade,  to  give  place 
to  others  of  funereal  solemnity.  It  has  been 
so  through  the  past ;  it  is  so  now ;  and  so  it 
will  be  in  ages  to  come.' 

But  this  place  —  what  bitter  tears  have  here 
been  shed!  How  many  regrets,  hopes,  and 


THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST.  127 

affections,  are  buried  under  these  monumental 
stones!  What  pompous  words  have  been 
uselessly  and  awkwardly  lavished  here  !  What 
great  phrases  for  little  men  !  How  much  bom 
bast,  tinsel,  and  parade,  for  a  little  human  clay, 
that  is  soon  to  become  dust!  How  small  is 
man ! 

Oh !  Death  has  a  rigor  of  all  most  hard 

His  suppliants  to  defy. 
The  cruel !  he  stops  his  ear  at  our  prayer, 

And  leaves  us  in  vain  to  cry. 

What  a  singular  aspect  does  this  burial  en 
closure  present!  Viewed  from  this  point,  it 
seems  as  if  itself  were  plunged  into  a  coffin. 
The  sun,  which  gilds  the  glass  of  that  chapel 
and  these  proud  tombs,  appears  to  lend  them 
his  immortal  splendor  but  with  regret. 

Ah !  what  mean  these  simple  wooden  crosses, 
that  rise  from  the  centre  of  the  sacred  ground  ? 
What  mean  this  marble,  this  porphyry,  and 
these  stones  that  crush  it  with  their  weight? 
They,  and  even  the  simple  mound  covered 
with  moss  or  grass,  —  all  these  objects  tell  us 
that  our  fellow-mortals  rest  beneath  the  flowers 
about  our  feet ! 


128  THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST. 

All  here  engraves  most  solemnly, 
In  lines  that  naught  disputes, 

The  pride  and  nothingness  of  man, 
Hi*  two  great  attributes. 

Alas !  of  all  his  splendor,  power, 
And  talents,  this  their  term 

Has  nothing  now  to  offer  us 
But  ashes  and  the  worm  — 

A  little  ashes,  which  the  winds, 
That  wander  wild  in  space, 

Contending  for  it  as  they  meet, 
Shall  with  their  breath  efface. 

And  such  is  man  —  insensate  man ! 

"Why,  then,  is  he  so  proud  'I 
The  coffin,  as  his  palace,  waits 

His  coining  in  the' shroud; 

In  this  deep  lodge  lugubrious, 

All  solitary  laid, 
To  moulder  silently,  concealed 

In  mortuary  shade. 

If  this  be  human  destiny. 

Why  doth  yon  lordling  eye 
My  poverty  but  with  contempt, 

Aad  hold  his  honors  high  ? 

And  why  should  his  base  opulence 
Give  him  a  haughty  head, 

Thus  daily  on  my  penury 
With  insolence  to  tread  ? 


THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST.  129 

Is  gold  the  god  men  so  adore, 

And  to  it  incense  burn ; 
While  they  to  honor  lift  the  vile, 

And  virtuous  merit  spurn  ? 

Can  this  bright  idol  give  a  shield, 

Of  death  to  turn  the  blow  — 
That  they  may  stand,  and  hold  their  ground, 

When  his  dread  scythe  shall  mow  ? 

Yet  let  us  wait.    That  foe,  perhaps, 

May  bow  the  lofty  head 
Ere  midnight,  by  the  cutting  stroke 

That  parts  the  vital  thread. 

And  they,  who  contumelious  now 

Our  humbler  presence  meet, 
May  be,  when  sinks  but  one  more  sun, 

The  dust  beneath  our  feet. 

We  '11  therefore  leave  these  mighty  ones 

To  shake  their  glittering  chain ; 
Their  souls  to  dazzle  and  innate 

With  splendor  poor  and  vain. 

And  let  them  in  idea  raise 

Their  monuments  of  state, 
Whose  marble  proud  shall  stand  to  say, 

'  Beneath  me  rests  the  great ! ' 

For  what  imports  their  empty  show  — 

Their  grandeur  frivolous ; 
This  idol  of  the  ignorant 

And  vulgar,  worshipped  thus  ? 

9 


130  THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST. 

And  what  are  their  distinctive  ranks 

(Of  no  true  good  the  friends,) 
To  me,  who  touch  the  hour  and  place 

Where  all  in  nothing  ends  ? 

But  we  will  banish  these  sombre  and  mel 
ancholy  reflections ;  and,  since  chance  has 
conducted  me  to  Pere  La  Chaise,  I  would 
avail  myself  of  it,  to  visit  whatever  may  here 
be  found  remarkable.  Thou,  my  friend,  whose 
taste  ever  leads  thy  feet,  as  their  favorite  prome 
nade,  through  the  paths  of  this  solemn  enclo 
sure,  thou  wilt  be  my  guide.  But,  first,  thou 
wilt  give  me  the  history  of  this  ground,  even 
before  it  became  a  cemetery. 

'  Very  readily,'  answered  my  friend ;  and 
here  is  what  he  related. 


HISTORY  OF  THE   CEMETERY  OF  PERE  LA 
CHAISE. 

Dulaure,  in  his  history  of  Paris,  informs  us 
that  the  ground  known  at  present  by  the  name 
of  '  Pere  La  Chaise,'  bore  at  a  very  remote 
period,  that  of  '  Bishop's  Field.'  The  chroni 
clers  have  omitted  to  instruct  us  respecting  the 
origin  of  this  name.  Saint  Faith,  however, 


THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST.  131 

tells  us,  that  at  that  day  the  ground  belonged  to 
the  Bishop  of  Paris.  Its  well-known  and  au 
thentic  record  is  not  traceable  farther  back  than 
the  fourteenth  century  —  an  era  when  the  Pari 
sians,  ever  strongly  given  to  applying  to  per 
sons,  places,  and  things,  soubriquets  of  their 
own  invention,  baptized  it,  Rcgnaulfs  Folly. 

A  rich  grocer  of  Paris,  Regnault  by  name, 
from  setting  out  in  life  a  very  poor  boy,  had, 
by  diligence  and  tact  in  his  line  of  business, 
risen  to  be  a  man  of  vast  wealth.  He  pos 
sessed  himself  of  this  beautiful  eminence, 
which  affords  such  a  rich  and  extensive  view 
on  every  side,  while,  to  the  west,  the  eye  here 
embraces  all  Paris  at  a  glance  ;  and,  after  hav 
ing  been  so  long,  as  it  were,  getting  root  in 
his  humble  occupation,  he  burst  out  in  full 
blown  pride  on  this  high  ground,  and  all  redo 
lent  of  the  odor  of  the  spices  he  had  patiently 
dealt  out  through  many  a  year,  in  his  low,  pent- 
up  stand,  to  enable  him  to  transplant  himself 
on  the  airy  height. 

Here  he  built  a  splendid  country  house,  and 
drew  on  himself  the  ridicule  of  the  wits  of  the 
day,  by  assuming  a  new  character,  and  a  style 
of  living  so  little  in  harmony  with  his  accus- 


132  THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST. 

tomed  habits,  that  he  bore  his  honors  but  awk 
wardly.  He  gave  himself  many  airs ;  and 
boasted  that,  in  his  retirement,  he  could  enjoy 
the  pleasures  of  the  country,  have  a  wide  sweep 
of  prospect  on  every  side,  and  overlook  all 
Paris,  without  troubling  himself  with  the  little 
affairs  that  busied  and  annoyed  the  Messieurs 
of  the  Capital. 

But  nothing  is  stable  on  this  earth.  Man 
and  his  concerns  are  more  moving  still  than 
the  sand.  The  grocer,  Regnault,  died;  and, 
what  is  common  in  such  cases,  he  left  many 
heirs,  who,  not  agreeing  to  any  division  of  his 
possessions,  had  the  whole  estate  sold  for  their 
mutual  benefit  and  satisfaction. 

It  was  the  epoch  when  the  Jesuits  had  just 
begun  to  forge  the  first  links  of  the  chain 
with  which  they  hoped  ultimately  to  bind  all 
the  kings  of  the  earth. 

The  fair  sex,  who,  though  always  worthy  of 
our  love  and  our  homage,  have  nevertheless 
ever  manifested  some  little  weakness  in  the 
head,  became  infatuated  with  these  reverend 
fathers.  A  lady,  who  was  very  rich,  and  a 
great  devotee,  purchased  Regnault's  Folly,  and 
presented  it,  as  a  country  seat,  to  those  respec- 


THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST.  133 

table  ecclesiastics,  then  domiciled  in  the  rue 
St.  Antoine. 

Ah !  if  the  walls  of  this  ancient  garden  could 
have  spoken,  what  curious  things  would  they 
have  revealed!  How  many  plots,  intrigues, 
letters  of  proscription,  sharpened  poniards,  per 
fidious  insinuations,  and  calumnious  denuncia 
tions,  have  issued  from  this  enclosure ! 

The  destinies  of  France,  through  a  long 
lapse  of  years,  turned,  as  on  a  pivot,  on  Reg- 
nault's  Folly ;  as  it  has  recently  been  at 
tempted  to  make  them  turn  at  Monterouge! 
But  the  present  day  is  not  like  the  past.  The 
French  have  eyes,  and  they  see.  A  hundred 
numbers  of  the  Journal  of  our  age  were  suffi 
cient  to  put  the  Jesuits  at  the  gate  of  Monte- 
rouge  :  it  took  three  hundred  years  to  expel 
them  from  Regnault's  Folly ! 

But  what  method  did  these  reverend  fathers 
use  to  change  the  name  of  RegnauWs  Folly 
to  that  of  Mont  Louis?  Accident  and  a  little 
flattery  did  the  whole.  On  the  2d  of  July,  1652, 
Cardinal  Mazarin  took  Louis  XIV.,  then  a  child, 
to  the  table  of  this  hill,  to  witness  the  combat 
which  took  place  in  the  Faubourg  St.  An 
toine,  between  Marshal  Turenne  and  the  great 


134  THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST. 

Conde.  All,  acquainted  with  their  history, 
know  that  the  latter  was  beaten,  and  came  near 
losing  his  army.  But  what  may  not  be  so 
well  known  is,  that  the  Jesuits  availed  them 
selves  of  this  little  diversion,  which  they  had 
just  given  to  the  royal  infant,  to  ask,  and  obtain 
of  him,  permission  to  efface  the  rough  name 
of  Regnault's  Folly,  and  replace  it  with  that  of 
MONT  Louis. 

This,  however,  did  not  prevent  the  people 
from  preserving  the  appellation  which  they  had 
bestowed  on  the  place.  At  a  later  period,  they 
even  had  the  impertinence  to  call  the  small 
house  of  the  venerable  confessor  of  the  king, 
La  Chaise's  Folly. 

If  Louis  XIV.  was  ever  great,  surely  it  was 
not  towards  the  close  of  his  life.  How  could 
he  be  so,  enfeebled  as  he  then  was  by  age,  and 
beset  by  those  two  evil  genii,  a  bigot  wife  and 
a  Jesuit  confessor  ? 

By  the  conventicle  long  held  on  this  ground, 
some  plot,  some  cruel  decree,  some  lettre-de- 
catchet,  was  ever  being  drawn  up.  Here  origi 
nated  the  terrible  St.  Bartholomew's  massacre ; 
the  dragoonade  of  the  Cevennes  ;  the  burning 
of  Charenton  ;  and  a  long  list  of  similar  atroci- 


THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST.  135 

ties,  which  it  is  useless  now  to  sum  up,  since, 
for  many  years  past,  this  troop  of  corrupters 
and  regicides  have  been  so  stripped  of  their 
disguise,  that  nothing  remains  to  be  told  of 
their  story.  We  will  therefore  dismiss  the 
subject  of  their  high-handed  deeds  during  their 
long  sojourn  on  Mont  Louis.  The  '  Memoirs ' 
of  La  Chalotais  are  a  thousand  times  above 
all  that  we  could  say  on  this  point.  Besides, 
it  is  the  history  of  the  ground,  and  not  that  of 
its  masters,  that  we  would  now  give. 

Yet  this  justice  we  must  render  to  the  vener 
able  father  La  Chaise :  the  place  was  wonder 
fully  embellished  under  his  hands;  which  is 
proved  by  an  engraving,  consecrated  by  Du- 
laure,  to  preserve  and  retrace  the  coup-d'ceil 
which  the  pleasure-house  and  ground  offered 
at  that  period.  From  ten  acres  the  enclosure 
was  extended  to  fifty-two  —  a  very  reasonable 
and  consistent  enlargement  for  a  monk  who 
had  taken  the  vow  of  poverty  ! 

The  higher  parts  of  this  beautifully  undu 
lating  earth  he  had  sown  with  grain,  and  the 
little  hillocks  planted  with  vines.  But  its  most 
extraordinary  feature  was  a  rich  orchard,  in 
which  His  Reverence,  who  loved  to  a  fault  the 


136     THE  CEMETERY  OF  THE  EAST. 

fair  and  the  good  of  fruits,  collected,  according 
to  the  manner  of  the  Jesuits,  (that  is,  for  chap- 
lets  and  indulgences)  all  the  rarest  and  most 
delicious  fruits  of  France.  The  king  himself 
possessed  not  their  equals.  But  it  is  well  known 
that  a  king  of  France,  at  that  period,  was  but 
a  little  boy  beside  a  Jesuit.  A  shining  piece 
of  water,  of  which  a  group  of  willows  now 
betrays  the  place,  groves  and  bowling-greens 
interspersed,  completed  the  ensemble  of  the 
garden. 

And  here  His  Reverence  entertained  all  the 
great-caps*  of  the  day.  Even  Madame  de 
Maintenon  herself  came  with  her  petitions ; 
and  Boileau,  the  severe  Boileau,  was  interested 
and  cringing  courtier  enough  to  come  and 
make  his  bow,  and  think  it  a  signal  honor  and 
favor,  here  to  have  read  his  piece  of  verses  en 
titled,  i  The  Love  of  God!'  It  seems  as  if  one, 
having  such  fooleries  on  his  own  conscience, 
ought  not  to  show  himself  so  severe  a  censor 
of  other  poor  sinners. 

At  length  the  great  day  of  justice  arrived. 

*  A  contemptuous  epithet  applied  to  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
and  those  who  followed  her,  whoset  the  fashion  of  nearly  bury 
ing  the  face  in  a  large  cap. 


THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST.  137 

All  the  Parliaments  of  France  were  leagued 
against  the  Jesuits.  They  were  politely  ad 
vised  and  urged  to  depart  from  the  kingdom ; 
but  they  manifested  a  disposition  to  wait  for 
more  ceremony.  Then  Louis  XV.  sanctioned 
their  expulsion,  and  the  Pope  himself.  Clement 
XIV.  abolished  their  order. 

Thus  it  appears  very  certain  that,  if  ever  they 
possess  the  right  of  conferring  canonization, 
they  will  never  make  a  saint  of  Clement  XIV. 
What  a  pity !  when,  otherwise,  they  might  have 
written  him  beside  the  worthy  brother,  James 
Clement,  who  had  so  well  merited  his  place  in 
their  martyrology,  by  his  cowardly  assassination 
of  the  person  of  the  King,  (Henry  III.  of  France.) 

Behold,  then,  the  unfortunate  Jesuits  forced 
to  quit  our  kingdom,  where  they  had  found 
themselves  so  well-conditioned.  The  blow 
was  cruel,  and  of  a  nature  to  turn  any  one's 
head.  So  the  poor  fathers  lost  the  use  of  theirs, 
by  this  astounding  stroke.  In  their  despair, 
they  forgot  to  pay  their  debts  ;  when,  without 
respect  for  their  sacred  persons,  the  Parliament 
of  Paris,  which  in  those  days  meant  no  jesting, 
simply  ordered  that  Mont  Louis  should  be 
sold  for  the  payment  of  several  millions  of 


138  THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST. 

bills  of  change  due  at  Lyons ;  and,  in  1765. 
Mont  Louis  was  sold  for  this  purpose. 

It  was  purchased  by  the  Messieurs  Baron- 
Desfontaines,  who  for  a  long  time  held  this 
beautiful  place  in  all  its  rural  charms.  But  the 
revolution,  by  altering  their  fortune,  deprived 
them  of  the  means  of  retaining  it  conveniently ; 
and  it  was  soon  divided  off  in  lots  for  many 
tenants.  Thus  the  ancient  establishment  of 
Pere  La  Chaise  seemed  threatened  with  the 
loss  of  its  splendor  and  its  name ;  when 
M.  Frochot,  Prefect  of  the  Seine,  satisfied  of 
its  rich  and  picturesque  position,  purchased,  in 
the  name  of  the  city,  the  entire  ground  for 
160,000  francs,  for  the  purpose  of  converting  it 
into  a  cemetery. 

M.  Brogniard  was  charged  with  the  care  of 
its  being  suitably  laid  out  and  prepared  for  its 
new  destination ;  and  the  genius  of  this  archi 
tect  developed  itself  in  the  enterprise,  as  wor 
thy  of  its  vast  designs.  He  named  Mont  Louis, 
Cemetery  of  the  East.  But  the  people,  faithful 
to  their  old  habits,  took  no  note  of  this  new 
denomination,  and  preserved  the  title  of  *  Pere 
La  Chaise ; '  content,  because  the  people  loved 
the  Jesuits  so  well^  to  see  the  home  of  a  rev- 


THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST.  139 

erend  father  of  the  company  of  Jesus  trans 
formed  to  a  burying-ground  1 

It  was,  says  Dulaure,  on  the  1st  of  May, 
1804,  that  the  first  interment  took  place  in  this 
new  cemetery.  It  was  the  burial,  in  the  lower 
part  of  the  ground,  of  a  bell-carrier  to  the 
police  officer. to  the  faubourg  St.  Antoine. 

Yet,  through  some  of  the  inexplicable  whim- 
sey  and  caprice,  common  to  the  heart  of  man, 
this  place,  on  which  nature  had  lavished  so  many 
peculiar  gifts,  and  which  the  wonders  of  art 
had  just  rendered  superior  in  attractions  to  any 
thing  it  had  ever  been,  this  cemetery,  so  advan 
tageous  in  every  respect,  was  from  its  first 
opening  stigmatized  with  popular  disfavor. 

But  whence  did  this  arise  ?  M.  Marchand, 
in  a  work  which  he  has  published  on  Pere  La 
Chaise,  presents  two  causes :  first,  the  Revolu 
tion  ;  secondly,  the  mania  for  victories. 

The  Revolution,  in  effecting  the  total  over 
throw  of  France,  violently  rent  away  its  vir 
tues  :  and  respect  for  the  ashes  of  the  dead, 
was  one  of  those  most  slow  to  regain  their 
places  in  the  breasts  of  the  French. 

The  military  glory,  which  succeeded  the 
storms  of  the  revolution,  was  little  favorable  to 


140  THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST. 

that  solicitude  which  every  one  ought  to  feel 
for  the  memory  of  his  kindred ;  at  a  time  when 
every  death  made  way  for  some  survivor  to 
advance  a  step  in  the  career  of  dignities,  or  the 
path  of  disgrace.  Death  could  not  be  viewed 
in  a  proper  light.  It  could  win  no  regard  from 
the  religious,  the  philosophic,  or  the  pensive 
eye.  Men  were  shoving,  and  crowding,  and 
thrusting  one  another ;  and,  when  once  arrived 
at  their  post,  they  cared  little  for  those  whom 
they  had  struck  down  on  the  way. 

This  order  of  things  was  not  of  long  dura 
tion.  Victory  grew  weary  of  following  us. 
The  elements  unchained  themselves  against 
us.  The  disasters  in  Russia  gave  the  signal ; 
and  our  armies,  till  then  invincible,  retreated 
step  by  step,  from  Moscow  to  Paris.  The 
misfortunes  of  the  invasion,  —  the  loss  of  the 
swan  of  France,  our  great  Poet,  the  Abbe 
Delille,  that  of  the  immortal  Gretry,  —  the 
tragic  and  terrible  deaths  of  Labedoyere  and 
Marshal  Ney,  gave  the  public  mind  an  insen 
sible  turn  to  serious  and  mournful  reflection. 
This  produced  a  love  of  retirement,  and  walks 
for  the  indulgence  of  solemn  reverie  in  places 
the  most  peaceful  and  funereal. 


THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST.  141 

Little  by  little,  an  observing  glance  was  cast 
on  the  admirable  position  of  Pere  La  Chaise, 
The  meditative  bent  their  steps  thither  to  con 
template  the  last  asylum  of  some  of  the  French 
soldiers,  who,  during  fifteen  years,  had  been 
displacing  and  bearing  crowns.  This  seemed 
to  yield  some  little  consolation  for  the  reverses 
of  the  day. 

The  more  this  ground  became  frequented, 
the  more  did  general  admiration  increase  for 
its  beautiful  and  varied  sites ;  its  alternations 
of  plain,  hill,  and  dell,  offering  a  thousand  pic 
turesque  and  romantic  irregularities.  These, 
with  the  magnificent  view  which  the  height 
commanded,  and  finally,  the  growth  of  re 
ligious  affections,  and  respect  of  survivors  for 
the  memory  and  the  dust  of  their  kindred,  com 
pleted  the  fortune  of  the  cemetery,  and  trans 
formed  it  into  a  true  Elysium. 

Then,  the  most  wealthy  individuals  seemed 
eagerly  vieing  with  each  other,  to  cover  the 
soil  with  monuments  more  or  less  costly  and 
imposing.  Some  sought  here  to  develope  all 
the  richness  and  perfection  of  art,  others  all  the 
fantastic  and  odd  inventions  of  imagination, 


142  THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST. 

All  kinds  and  forms  of  monuments  and  tombs, 
unknown  or  obsolete  until  that  day,  came 
together  on  this  ground.  And  it  is  precisely 
this  confusion  and  variety  of  models  and  ma 
terials,  which  produce  the  principal  beauty  of 
this  last  repose  of  our  dead. 

A  superb  monument  of  marble,  rising  beside 
a  low  and  modest  stone/  forms  a  contrast 
which  does  not  sadden  the  eye  of  one  who  re 
flects  that  between  the  little  portions  of  dust, 
resting  beneath  these  mementos,  there  is  no 
difference. 

The  students  of  the  Medical  School  revived, 
in  France,  a  funeral  ceremony  of  the  ancients, 
by  bearing  on  their  arms  to  the  grave,  the  re 
mains  of  one  of  their  beloved  masters,  Dr. 
Beclard. 

The  burial  solemnities  of  General  Foy  add 
ed  still  more  energy  to  these  last  duties  of 
respect  rendered  by  a  grateful  public  to  men, 
who,  during  their  lives,  have  merited  much 
from  their  country.  Here,  in  the  most  fearful 
times,  a  hundred  thousand  people,  from  all 
ranks  of  society,  attended  his  cold  form  to  its 
final  repose ;  and  two  millions  of  men  endowed 


THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST.  143 

the  son  of  the  warrior-Patriot  that  France  had 
just  lost !  * 

From  that  time  public  opinion  has  preserved 
this  tribute  of  love  and  gratitude  to  be  shown 
when  the  great  depart.  Talma,  La  Rochefau- 
cault,  and  Manuel,  received  the  same  honors. 
And  if  the  authorities,  unfavorable  to  this  dis 
interested  homage,  have  sometimes  sought  to 
suppress  its  prevalence,  they  have  not  been 
able  to  eradicate  it  in  the  hearts  of  all  France, 
who  regard  its  manifestation  as  a  sacred  duty, 
of  which  nothing  should,  or  can,  prevent  the 
fulfilment. 

In  the  autumn  of  1820,  the  ancient  house  of 
Pere  La  Chaise  was  taken  down,  to  give  place 
to  the  chapel  which  now  occupies  its  site. 
The  limits  of  the  enclosure  have  been  extend 
ed,  till  they  include  from  eighty  to  a  hundred 
acres. 

The  interments  and  solemn  ceremonies  that 
have  taken  place  in  this  cemetery,  have  raised 
it  to  the  highest  degree  of  public  interest  and 

*  An  account  of  the  affecting  scenes  that  occurred  at  the  fune 
ral  of  General  Toy,  may  be  found  in  a  Biographic  Sketch  of 
him,  by  M.  Tissot,  prefixed  to  his  published  discourses. 


144  THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST. 

favor,   as   it  will   appear   from   the   following 
sketches  and  descriptions. 


Thus  far  I  have  translated  my  author.  He 
now  spreads  before  the  reader  a  map  of  the 
cemetery,  and  then  presents  a  series  of  very 
beautiful  engravings  of  tombs,  monuments, 
trees,  and  shrubbery,  that  ornament  the  ground. 
He  quotes  many  inscriptions,  and  offers  his  in 
cidental  remarks  and  opinions,  as  he  goes  on, 
leading  you,  as  it  were,  by  the  hand,  through 
every  path,  and  stopping  to  point  out  whatever 
appears  to  claim  notice,  either  for  the  beautiful 
and  sublime,  or  the  absurd  and  ridiculous. 
Nothing  escapes  his  eye  of  nice  distinctions, 
which  often  seems  to  delight  more  in  the  sim 
ple  beauty  of  an  humble  wooden  cross  and  the 
tree  it  leans  against,  or  the  flowers  that  sur 
round  it,  than  in  the  expensive  pile  of  por 
phyry,  marble,  or  any  other  costly  material, 
moulded  by  the  hand  of  art.  Yet  to  these  he 
would  do  justice,  as  well  as  to  the  characters 
of  those  whose  memories  they  perpetuate,  and 
the  sentiments  that  caused  them  to  be  reared. 


THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST.  145 

He  even  recounts,  en  passant,  some  little  sto 
ries  of  the  lives  or  the  deaths  of  several  indi 
viduals,  the  ends  of  whose  histories  are  marked 
by  these  solemn  periods  of  stone.  One  monu 
ment,  a  pile  of  white  marble,  in  a  low,  seques 
tered  spot,  and  embosomed  in  deep  shade,  he 
points  out  as  very  touching  and  beautiful,  and 
says  it  is  to  the  memory  of  'a  fair  North 
American  flower  —  a  young  lady  of  Boston.' 

<  Here,'  he  says,  '  is  something  which  occa 
sions  me  deep  emotion,  —  a  simple  piece  of 
paper  fastened  to  a  small  wooden  cross.  It  is 
the  writing  of  a  little  child,  who  comes,  in  this 
way,  to  wish  bonne  fete  to  his  brother ;  and  the 
flowers  he  has  brought  lie  all  fresh  and  sweet 
at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  on  the  grave  that  holds 
the  dust  of  this  tender  object  of  such  pure  fra 
ternal,  infant  love.' 

He  gives  a  number  of  very  appropriate,  and 
well-composed  epitaphs,  and  then  remarks,  that, 
with  the  exception  of  these,  you  would  be  sur 
prised  at  the  flat  uniformity  of  most  of  the 
many  thousands  besides.  Every  one  assures 
the  passenger,  that  beneath  it  sleeps  the  best, 
the  purest,  and  most  perfect  being,  as  husband, 
wife,  parent,  child,  brother,  sister,  or  friend, 
10 


146  THE    CEMETERY    OF    THE    EAST. 

that  ever  blessed  the  world !  He  expresses  his 
suspicion  that  much  excellence  of  character 
exists  on  the  speaking  marble,  that  was  never 
known  or  acknowledged  elsewhere;  and  adds, 
1  No  wonder  that  we  meet  so  many  vices  in 
the  streets  of  Paris,  since  the  virtues  seem  all 
to  have  retired  to  Pere  La  Chaise ! ' 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SOLDIER. 


THE  venerable  man,  to  whom  the  above  title 
may  in  a  two-fold  sense  be  applied,  resides  in 
a  town  of  Massachusetts,  about  thirty  miles 
from  its  metropolis.  He  was  an  officer  in  our 
revolutionary  war,  and,  having  gone  through 
nearly  all  the  most  perilous  and  interesting 
scenes  in  the  great  struggle  for  independence, 
can  relate  many  anecdotes  concerning  that 
memorable  era,  which  have  no  record,  but  in 
the  mind  of  one  who  this  day  enters  on  his 
eighty-second  year. 

His  reverend  form  is  now  before  me ;  and, 
while  his  snowy  locks  lie  loose  and  still  on  the 
silver  bows  of  his  spectacles,  through  which  he 
reads,  to  learn  how  it  goes  with  the  country  he 
has  loved  and  served  so  well,  he  little  dreams 
that  he  is  sitting  for  his  portrait,  or  what  may 


148  THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER. 

be  the  subject  of  the  pen  that  is  moving  near 
him. 

As  a  soldier,  he  has  gone  through  much  suf 
fering  from  hunger,  fatigue,  and  exposure  to 
the  weather :  and  many  perils  by  the  cannon 
and  the  sword.  His  blood  sprinkled  his  path, 
returning  from  Lexington  to  Cambridge,  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  day  of  the  battle :  and  his  feet 
had  none  behind  them,  when,  after  that  of 
Bunker  Hill,  he  was  fired  at  as  a  single  mark, 
on  Charlestown  Neck,  from  the  British  floating 
batteries,  and  saw  a  ball  cut  a  trench  on  his 
way  close  before  him,  which  caused  him  to 
stumble  as  he  ran  to  overtake  his  company. 
He  was  at  White  Plains,  and  Still- Water,  and 
will  tell  you  how  the  first  field-piece,  taken 
from  Burgoyne,  felt  to  his  own  right  hand,  as  he 
sprang  through  the  embrasure  and  took  it,* 
when  his  was  the  first  hand  laid  upon  it  He 
commanded  the  guards  at  West  Point,  at  the 
time  of  Arnold's  desertion,  and  can  recount 

*  This  piece  of  ordnance  was.  a  few  years  ago,  and  perhaps  is 
stffl.  statkftd  in  the  city  of  New  York,  accompanied  by  an 
account  of  when  and  where  it  was  taken:  bat  the  name  of  the 


Then?  he  saw  it  when  on  a  visit  to  the  city,  fifty  years  after  th« 
memorable  day  when  he  first  touched  & 


THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER,  149 

many  schemes  laid  by  the  traitor  to  bring  con 
fusion  into  the  camp ;  some  of  which  were  by 
himself  discovered  and  baffled,  while  Arnold, 
perceiving  it,  endeavored  to  dazzle  his  eyes  by 
flattery  and  attention.  He  can  describe  the 
person  of  the  gallant  Andre,  and  his  deport 
ment  at  the  time  of  his  capture ;  for  it  fell  to  his 
lot  to  pass  the  evening  and  night,  after  he  was 
taken,  with  him,  as  his  guard  watch. 

In  short,  his  memory  is  a  well-regulated 
store-house  of  all  that  happened  from  the  time 
when,  having  returned  with  wet  feet  from 
crossing  his  father's  meadows,  he  heard  the 
first  alarm,  that  the  British  had  landed,  and 
were  on  their  way  to  Concord:  and  shoul 
dered  his  musket  and  went  forth,  to  that  when 
he  saw  the  sword  given  into  the  hand  of 
Gates,  —  when,  the  victory  won,  the  country 
free,  and  the  army  disbanded,  he  returned 
home  on  foot,  performing  the  distajnce  of  one 
hundred  and  sixty  miles  in  three  successive 
days,  and  ascribing  all  the  glory  of  the  victory 
to  the  God  of  armies. 

The  private  life  of  our  venerable  friend 
was,  in  its  early  part,  a  season  of  success  and 
sunshine.  His  sails  were  swift  upon  the  ocean, 


150  THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER. 

and  his  cattle  fat  upon  the  hills.  He  was 
blessed  in  his  'basket  and  his  store.'  But,  as 
in  prosperity  he  was  not  puffed  up,  so  in  ad 
versity  he  was  not  broken  down.  And  when 
it  afterwards  pleased  the  Lord  to  try  him,  as 
he  did  his  servant  of  old,  by  a  sudden  reverse 
of  fortune,  which  brought  on  losses  and  afflic 
tions  in  a  burden  that  would  have  crushed  a 
spirit  not  accustomed,  Like  his,  to  throw  all 
temporal  things,  whether  of  loss  or  of  gain, 
into  the  scale  against  that  <  far  more  exceeding 
and  eternal  weight  of  glory'  to  which  he  is 
now  looking  with  the  feeling  of  a  near  ap 
proach,  he  has  never  been  known  to  murmur 
nor  to  charge  God  foolishly.  In  one  instance, 
there  literally  came  'a  great  wind  from  the 
wilderness,  and  smote  the  four  corners  of  his 
house,  and  it  fell.'  Yet,  in  all  his  tribulation,  he 
seemed  soothed  and  supported  by  a  conscience 
whispering  within,  '  But  he  knoweth  the  way 
that  I  have  taken ;  when  he  hath  tried  me,  I 
shall  come  forth  as  gold.  My  foot  hath  held 
his  stera  his  way  I  have  kept,  and  not  de 
clined.' 

His  misfortunes  and  the  vicissitudes  of  his 
life,  if  they  were  written  and  printed  in  a  book, 


THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER.  151 

would  form  a  series  of  truths  far  more  interest 
ing  than  many  of  the  glowing  and  pathetic 
fictions  that  are  sung  about  heroes  from  the 
regions  of  romance. 

But,  after  having  buffeted  the  tempest  for 
many  years,  in  which  he  was  ever  more  ready  to 
convince  the  world  that  the  staff  he  walked  by 
was  not  rested  on  an  earthly  foundation,  than  to 
boast  of  that  which  supported  him,  he  at  length 
saw  the  clouds  melted  and  scattered  away,  thin 
and  pale  on  the  face  of  the  azure  heavens. 
He  is  now  sound  in  health,  serene,  and  happy ; 
and  a  calm,  sunset-glory  hangs  about  the  eve 
ning  of  his  day. 

It  may  not  be  improper  here  to  add  of  him 
who  has  fought  so  manfully  for  his  country, 
and  so  faithfully  for  the  Captain  of  his  salva 
tion,  that  his  religious  belief  has  ever  been  set 
forth  less  by  his  words  than  by  his  walk,  in 
which  he  has  invariably  been  found  a  follower 
of  him  who  was  meek  and  lowly.  His  Chris 
tian  profession,  on  which  he  has  never  brought 
a  stain,  was  made  early  in  life  ;  but  on  the 
subject  of  religion  he  is  modest,  reverential, 
and  a  man  of  few  words. 

No  sectarian  or  bigot,  he  judges  no  man,  in- 


152  THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER. 

terferes  with  none ;  but  while  one  is  contend 
ing  that  he  is  of  Paul,  and  another  that  he  is 
of  Apollos,  he  is  satisfied  to  be  found  of  Christ, 
and  in  the  exercise  of  that  charity  which  suffer- 
eth  long-  and  is  kind.  The  gospel,  in  the  sim 
ple  form  in  which  it  was  handed  down  by  the 
inspired  writers  to  his  ancestors  and  to  him, 
he  took  for  the  first  pattern  by  which  to  shape 
his  religious  views  and  character ;  and  he  has 
never  since  wished  to  alter  them  to  any  new 
mode,  or  to  conform  to  more  recent-made  rules 
of  belief  and  practice. 

He  reads  no  works  of  doctrine  or  contro 
versy  ;  but,  regarding  the  Book  of  books  as  the 
light  for  his  mind,  and  the  fountain  for  his 
thirst,  he  prefers  it,  in  the  one  sense,  to  any  of 
the  lesser  luminaries  that  may  be  kindled  or 
lighted  at  it ;  and,  in  the  other,  to  the  streams 
that  may  be  drawn  from  it,  and  poured  into 
clayey  vessels  of  divers  colors,  to  be  tinged 
with  the  hue  of  each. 

You  may  therefore  often  see  him  at  this 
well-spring  of  life,  as  he  sits  with  a  large  folio 
Bible  open  across  his  lap,  with  a  hand  fast  on 
either  side,  as  though  it  were  the  only  thing  to 
hold  on  by  in  this  world ;  and  his  «ye  fixed  on 


THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER.  153 

its  pages,  as  if  looking  through  them,  as  an 
open  gate-way,  into  heaven. 

His  early  religious  experience  has  always 
been  less  known  to  the  world  than  to  himself 
and  the  Being  with  whom  the  business  of  the 
soul  is  transacted.  Indeed,  I  never  knew  of, 
his  speaking  on  the  subject,  till  a  friend,  a  few 
months  ago,  wishing  to  know  something  of  it, 
questioned  him  so  closely  as  to  draw  from  him 
the  following  simple  statement : 

4  My  first  impressions  were  from  pious  pa 
rents,  whose  moral  and  religious  instructions 
were  always  illustrated  to  my  young  mind,  by 
the  example  of  their  upright  and  holy  walk 
before  me.  As  I  grew  older,  and  began  to 
read  and  reflect  for  myself,  I  used  to  take  the 
Bible  into  retirement;  and,  meditating  alone 
over  its  contents,  I  felt  that  I  could  not  make  a 
wiser  choice  than  its  Author,  for  my  friend 
through  life;  nor  seek  a  better  portion  than 
the  inheritance  of  a  child  of  God,  trusting  that 
to  this  all  needed  things  would  be  added. 

4 1  was  now  but  a  boy,  yet  I  believed  He 
spake  truth,  who  said,  they  who  seek  me  early 
shall  find  me ;  and  I  gladly  gave  up  my  heart  and 
its  concerns  into  his  keeping,  feeling  that  they 


154  THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER. 

could  be  no  where  else  so  safe.  I  remember, 
that  one  of  my  favorite  haunts  for  meditation, 
in  good  weather,  was  a  beautiful  walnut  grove, 
on  my  father's  grounds,  not  far  from  our  dwell 
ing.  Here  I  used  to  go  out  alone,  to  admire 
,the  beauties  of  the  natural  world,  and  to  com 
mune  with  him  who  had  caused  them. 

'  As  I  looked  from  my  grassy  seat,  up  through 
the  tall  trees,  whose  boughs  were  on  every  side 
studded  with  young  nuts ;  and  considered,  that 
the  hand  which  was  forming  the  kernel  in  the 
shell,  and  bringing  it  to  perfection,  had  also 
spread  out  and  now  upheld  the  heavens  above, 
I  was  filled  with  wonder  and  admiration  at  a 
thought  of  the  wisdom,  the  power,  and  the 
goodness  of  Him,  who  was  the  author  of  all  I 
beheld  without  and  all  I  felt  within  me. 

It  was  at  this  age,  and  in  an  hour  and  a 
scene  like  these,  that,  with  my  heart  melted 
by  unmingled  love,  I  came  to  the  early,  but 
deliberate  decision,  that  I  would  be  Christ's  for 
time,  and  trust  him  for  eternity.  And  thus,  I 
bound  myself  to  him  by  a  covenant  which  has 
held  me  up  through  all  the  deep  and  troubled 
waters,  and  remained  unbroken  by  any  of  the 
tempests  of  this  changeful  world. 


THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER.  155 

When  I  went  into  the  army,  I  took  my 
Bible  with  me  in  my  knapsack,  determined  to 
square  my  actions  by  its  rules,  come  what 
might ;  and  never  have  I  regretted  going  forth 
to  the  field,  clothed  in  the  armor  it  prescribed.' 


It  is  now  to  be  added  to  the  foregoing,  which 
was  written  some  years  ago,  that  it  is  here  in 
serted  as  a  tribute,  not  to  the  virtues  of  the 
living,  but  to  the  memory  of  the  departed ; 
since  its  sainted  subject  has  recently  finished 
the  fight  of  the  CHRISTIAN  SOLDIER,  and  gone 
to  his  reward.  Subsequent  to  the  day  when 
this  article  was  penned,  he  was  led  to  answer 
questions,  and  make  short  relations  of  events 
concerning  his  revolutionary  campaigns,  which 
were  caught  from  his  lips,  and  in  his  own 
words  committed  to  paper,  as  he  continued  to 
speak,  not  aware  that  these  words  were  taking 
any  form  more  tangible  than  that  of  sound.  A 
few  of  these  sketches  were  then  in  a  fragmen 
tary,  fugitive  form,  published  in  short  articles. 
He  also,  at  the  request  of  his  friends,  wrote, 
himself,  in  his  advanced  age,  but  with  clear 
memory,  and  in  a  style  of  truth,  simple  and 


156  THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER. 

ungarnished,  a  brief  account  of  his  adventures 
connected  with  that  period,  to  leave  as  a  keep 
sake  with  his  children.  Some  of  these  papers 
may  perhaps  hereafter  be  compiled,  and  .given 
to  the  public. 


S  A  INT    3  •  II  • 


ome 

rino, 

held 

>red  with 

ing  your 

..      - 
rdlden  S- 


oace<l 


SUIT    IfSALIA. 


::    -~ 


'/  slid  L 


1** 


-.-._;.    ^    .> 


158  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

4  Ah,  yes !  and  a  true  and  beautiful  view  of 
an  old,  familiar  scene ! '  said  he,  as  his  black, 
Italian  eye  glanced  at  the  engraving,  like  a 
gleam  from  the  sun  of  his  own  bright  clime. 
But,  as  he  studied  the  piece  more  intently,  the 
enthusiastic  ah*  gave  way  to  the  pensive  ;  and 
a  moisture  glistening  in  the  light  beneath  his 
long,  dark  eyelashes,  showed  me  that  I  had 
touch  a  deep-toned  instrument  of  many  strings  ; 
and  inadvertently  brought  home  too  near  to 
one  who  had  left  it,  with  every  kindred  tie, 
beyond  the  Atlantic  waves.  Pained  at  per 
ceiving  the  deep  abstraction  of  affection  and 
memory  into  which  I  had  suddenly  thrown 
him,  I  aimed  to  bring  him  out  of  it,  by  request 
ing  him  to  give  me  the  history  of  this  fair 
saint,  and  to  tell  what  eminent  works  of  piety 
she  had  done,  to  purchase  canonization. 

'  I  will,'  said  he,  '  give  you  some  account  of 
the  historical  facts  that  are  authentic,  and  the 
traditions  and  notions,  religious  and  supersti 
tious,  concerning  her.  I  made  a  sketch  of 
these,  and  of  Monte  Pellegrino,  in  manuscript, 
during  my  second  and  late  voyage  from  Sicily 
to  the  United  States.  Being  in  a  merchant 
ship,  I  was  the  only  passenger ;  and  my  cap- 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  159 

tain,  a  true  old  son  of  Cape  Cod,  made  the 
most  of  me  as  a  gossip,  to  wile  away  the  tedi 
ous  hours  of  his  watch  below. 

'  Among  other  curiosities  which  he  had  in 
his  cabin,  he  once  showed  me  a  crystal  case, 
containing  a  wax  figure,  made  to  represent  a 
beautiful  young  girl  in  the  sackcloth  of  a  pil 
grim  ;  her  fair  brow  crowned  with  a  wreath  of 
roses,  and  her  lovely  form  reclining  in  pensive 
attitude  on  the  rude  stones  of  what  might  be 
called  a  cave. 

'  The  captain  said  he  had  purchased  the  toy 
in  Palermo,  for  a  present  to  carry  home  to  his 
children  ;  and,  as  he  made  it  his  rule  to  have  a 
story  for  every  thing,  he  wished  he  could  have 
one,  and  a  good  one,  too,  to  tell  them  at  home 
about  that  girl  in  the  glass  case. 

4 1  smiled,  and  told  this  aged  boy  that,  as  to 
that  girl-)  I  guessed  I  could  tell  him  something 
to  the  point.  So,  on  a  Saturday  evening,  when 
he  had  trimmed  his  sails,  and  seen  that  all  was 
right  on  deck,  and  we  sat  down  to  give  our 
usual  Saturday-evening  sentiment,  Friends  at 
home  !  to  which  he  always  added  a  laconic, 
and  abroad  !  I  told  him  the  story  of  Rosalia, 
which  I  will  place  at  your  service.' 


160  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

Shortly  afterwards  my  Palermitan  friend  fur 
nished  me  with  the  manuscript  papers,  from 
which  I  give  the  following : 

ROSALIA,  THE  PILGRIM  SAINT. 

Rosalia,  the  guardian  saint  of  the  city  of 
Palermo,  was  of  the  royal  house  of  the  Sini- 
baldis,  who,  in  the  middle  ages,  swayed  their 
sceptre  over  the  whole  island  and  kingdom  of 
Sicily.  This  family  was  an  ancient  branch  of 
the  house  of  Charlemagne ;  or,  according  to 
some  historians,  descended  in  direct  line  from 
the  great  Emperor  himself. 

Young,  beautiful  and  innocent,  Rosalia  was 
the  darling  child  of  her  royal  parents,  the  dear 
est  object  of  their  affections,  the  brightest  jewel 
of  their  crown.  In  her  centred  the  admiration 
of  the  courtiers,  the  love  of  the  people.  She 
was  the  minstrel's  theme  ;  the  bright  star  of  the 
troubador ;  the  lady-love  in  whose  defence  and 
honor  many  noble  knights  and  gallant  cava 
liers  were  ready  to  break  a  lance  with  the 
proudest  and  best  that  ever  wore  spurs,  or  rode 
a  tournament,  in  all  Christendom.  Attracted 
by  the  charms  of  her  beauty,  and  the  lustre  of 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  161 

her  station,  many  a  royal  suitor  had  endeavored 
to  win  to  his  love  this  noble  daughter  of  a 
long  line  of  princes ;  this  fairest  rose  that  ever 
bloomed  in  Sicily; 

But  the  heart  of  Rosalia  was  not  a  prize  to 
be  successfully  striven  for  by  man.  Another, 
and  a  holier  flame  than  that  of  mortal  love, 
burned  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  her  soul. 
Disgusted  with  the  manners  of  a  court,  sick  of 
the  vanities  of  earth,  and  dead  to  its  allure 
ments  —  at  the  early  age  of  fifteen,  while  her 
uncle,  William  the  Good,  yet  filled  the  throne  — 
she  turned  away  from  the  seeming  advantages 
of  her  royal  birth,  and  the  pleasures  of  a  sinful 
world,  to  consecrate  her  heart  and  her  life  to 
God. 

It  is  an  ancient  tradition,  which  many  at  the 
present  day  believe  to  have  been  founded  on 
truth,  that  while  the  royal  maiden  was  one  day 
in  her  chamber,  dressing  to  appear  at  a  tourna 
ment,  she  had  a  heavenly  vision.  The  mirror, 
which  reflected  her  own  fair  form,  suddenly 
presented  to  her  eye  the  image  of  the  Saviour 
in  the  affecting  attitude  of  his  last  sufferings 
for  the  redemption  of  mankind.  And  at  the- 
11 


162  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

same  moment,  she  heard  a  celestial  voice,  re 
minding  her,  in  the  sweetest  tones  of  fatherly 
complaint,  of  what  the  Son  of  God  had  borne 
for  her,  to  win  her  love ;  and  enjoining  it  on 
her  to  make  sure  her  salvation,  by  withdrawing 
from  the  snares,  and  flying  the  temptations  of 
a  deceitful  world. 

Rosalia  listened  to  the  call,  and  with  willing 
heart  resolved  to  obey  it.  She  determined  t© 
quit  forever  the  home  of  her  earthly  fathers; 
and  to  follow  the  way  that  might  be  pointed 
out  by  her  unearthly  guide,  to  gain  at  last  the 
more  enduring  and  glorious  mansion  of  her 
Father  in  heaven. 

In  the  year  1159,  she  suddenly  disappeared 
from  the  palace  and  the  eye  of  man ;  and  fled 
to  a  neighboring  forest,  burying  herself  in  its 
shadowy  depths  for  solitude  and  prayer  —  for 
undisturbed  communion  with  the  Father  of 
her  spirit.  Thence,  suspecting  herself  pursued, 
she  passed  on,  to  a  cavern  in  the  side  of  the 
Monte  Quesquina.  On  the  rocky  side  of  this 
retreat  she  engraved  the  following  Latin  in 
scription,  which  was  not  discovered  till  long 
afterwards:  Ego  Rosalia  Sinibaldi  quisquine 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  163 

et  rosarum  Domini  filia  Amore  Dei  mei  Jesu 
Christi  in  hoc  antro  habitare  decrevL* 

But  the  fair  fugitive  was  discovered,  and 
interrupted  in  her  meditations  by  a  troop  of 
cavaliers  sent  out  in  quest  of  her  ;  and  was,  by 
the  king's  command,  hurried  back  to  the  palace, 
when  she  had  just  gone  up  into  the  mountain 
to  pray,  and  had  placed  the  record  of  her  pious 
resolution  in  its  ancient  cavern  mouth. 

Yet,  neither  the  endearments,  the  prayers 
and  entreaties,  nor  even  the  stern  injunction  of 
her  friends,  could  unsettle  the  holy  purpose  of 
her  mind.  She  eluded  their  vigilance,  and  the 
anxious  solicitude  of  their  affections.  Assum 
ing  the  disguise  of  a  pilgrim,  with  no  guide  or 
protector  but  her  firm  resolution  and  her  God, 
she  again'  fled  from  the  palace,  bidding  a  final 
adieu  to  her  father-home  and  the  presence  of 
man.  She  was  gone!  but  none  could  tell 
whither.  Her  foot  had  left  no  print ;  no  mark 

*  The  grammatical  correctness  of  this  inscription  will  be 
questionable  to  the  classic  eye.  But  I  copy  it  as  given  by  the 
Eev.  G  N.  Wright,  A.  M.,  and  others.  Brydone  calls  it,  <  a 
specimen  of  the  Saint's  Latinity.'  My  informant  thinks  rosa 
rum  refers  to  the  profusion  of  splendid  roses  for  which  that  part 
of  the  island  was  once  celebrated,  and  that  hence,  probably,  the 
name,  Rosalia. 


164  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

remained  to  reveal  the  way  she  had  taken. 
None  who  then  lived  on  earth  was  ever  again 
to  behold  her  face,  or  to  learn  her  fate. 

As  light  before  the  dial's  shade, 

As  odors  on  a  wave  of  air ; 
So  passed  the  beauteous  royal  maid, 

While  mortal  could  not  answer,  where  ! 

Northward  of  the  beautiful  Bay  of  Palermo, 
and  about  two  miles  from  the  city,  stands 
Monte  Pellegrino.  It  rises  boldly  and  abruptly 
to  the  height  of  1474  feet,  when  it  dilates  into 
a  plain  about  a  mile  in  length ;  and  is  there 
surmounted  by  a  loftier  peak,  which  makes  the 
extreme  elevation  of  the  mountain  about  1963 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  On  the  top  of 
that  peak  has  stood,  from  time  immemorial,  the 
old  watch-tower,  which,  in  our  day,  has  been 
appropriated  to  the  use  of  a  telegraph. 

This  mountain  is  not  without  its  honored 
fame  in  ancient  history.  It  is  the  Mons  Ercta 
of  the  ancients.  The  name  reminds  the  scholar 
of  Hamilcar  Barcas  and  Pyrrhus,  and  of.  the 
bloody  battles  fought  on  and  around  its  plains, 
between  the  Carthagenians  and  the  Romans. 

About   midway   up   the   mountain   are   the 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  165 

fragments  of  an  old  castle,  demolished  by  the 
abrading  hand  of  time,  which,  even  in  the  days 
of  the  Carthagenians,  was,  according  to  the 
Sicilian  historian,  regarded  as  an  antiquity, 
and  said  to  have  belonged  to  the  reign  of 
Saturn.  Diodorus  writes,  that  Hamilcar  held 
this  same  castle  against  the  most  powerful 
efforts  of  the  Romans,  for  the  space  of  three 
years  and  more. 

But  the  memory  of  these  warlike  deeds  was 
to  be  obscured  in  process  of  time  by  the  re 
nown  of  a  more  peaceful  and  holy  adventure. 
Few  of  the  thousands  who  go  yearly  to  visit 
the  mountain,  have  ever  read,  or  heard  of  the 
battles  it  has  borne,  as  the  Mons  Ercta,  whilst 
all  look  up  to  the  Monte  Pellegrino,  (the  Pil 
grim's  Mountain,)  with  feelings  of  the  deepest 
reverence,  for  it  is  the  shrine  of  ROSALIA  ! 

On  the  eastern  and  most  accessible  side,  and 
reaching  to  its  first-named  elevation,  there  is 
now  built  a  wide  and  commodious  road,  rest 
ing  on  several  arcades  of  rough,  heavy  ma 
sonry,  gradually  decreasing  in  the  ascent,  and 
winding  on,  high,  through  the  hollow  of  a  hard- 
climbing  ravine.  But,  at  the  epoch  of  our 
story,  it  must  have  been  a  task,  even  to  the 


166  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

daring  huntsman,  to  brave  the  difficulties  of 
that  ascent,  so  steep  at  many  points  as  to 
seem  inaccessible  to  all  but  the  eagle. 

The  surface  of  the  mountain  presents  noth 
ing  remarkable,  or  peculiarly  striking  to  the 
eye  ;  unless  it  be  found  in  its  utter  barrenness, 
and  the  fine  contrasts  of  the  ever-varying  tints 
of  its  massive  peaks. 

As  the  traveller  ascends,  he  sees,  rising  con 
tinually  around  and  above  him,  immense  heaps 
of  eternal  rocks  confusedly  thrown  together, 
and  heaving  enormously  one  over  another,  like 
the  ocean-billows  after  a  tempest.  No  smiling 
verdure  refreshes  his  weary  sight ;  but  here  and 
there  it  may  be  greeted  by  a  tuft  of  worthless 
weeds,  springing  out  from  the  clefts  of  the  old 
grey  rocks,  or  the  solitary  wild-flower  of  the 
mountain,  nodding  carelessly  under  the  scorch 
ing  rays  of  the  noon-day  sun. 

He  hears  no  voice,  no  sound ;  not  even  the 
monotonous  roar  of  a  torrent  breaking  wildly 
upon  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  scene.  Noth 
ing,  but  the  acute  echo  of  his  own  footsteps,  as 
he  treads  along  the  flinty  gravelled  road ;  or 
the  sharp-armed  thistle,  hissing  from  the  over 
hanging  peaks,  to  the  rough  breath  of  the 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  167 

north,  or   its   melancholy  murmnrings   to   the 
gentle  breeze  of  the  south. 

But  no  sooner,  has  he  reached  the  first  eleva 
tion,  and  found  himself  at  the  brink  of  a  preci 
pice,  where  a  wooden  cross  has  been  erected  to 
remind  him  that  he  now  treads  on  hallowed 
ground,  than  his  eye  and  his  ear  are  at  once, 
as  if  by  magic,  surprised  and  delighted  by  the 
beautiful  prospect,  and  the  cheerful  hum  of  the 
living,  animated  nature  beneath  him.  The 
uncertain,  dying  sounds  from  the  distant  city, 
stealing  softly  along  on  the  winds  of  the  pass 
ing  wind,  come  like  sweetest  music  to  his  en 
raptured  sense.  The  city  itself,  with  its  marble 
palaces,  its  hundred  turrets,  and  its  magnificent 
domes,  glittering  to  the  sun,  is  seen  yonder, 
towards  the  east,  quietly  reposing  on  the  verge 
of  the  calm  blue  sea,  bound  in  by  the  shore, 
and  by  the  endless  perspective  of  mountains 
extending  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  till  their 
outlines  are  blended  and  lost  in  the  clear  azure 
of  the  sky.  Then,  the  plains  that  surround 
the  city  are  seen  rising  gently  into  hills,  chang 
ing  by  degrees  into  a  vast  ampitheatre  of  moun 
tains,  and  exhibiting  the  most  charming  grada 
tions  of  green,  sloping  meadows,  and  deep 


168  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

groves  of  orange-trees ;  then  the  grey  and 
brownish  masses  of  olive-woods ;  and,  tower 
ing  higher  up,  the  dark,  majestic  forests,  broken 
here  and  there,  and  set  forth  by  a  white  cottage, 
the  shepherd's  mountain  home. 

Nor  is  the  scene  towards  the  south  less  mag 
nificent  than  that  to  the. east.  Here,  again,  it 
opens  to  the  eye,  as  if  within  arms-reach  of  the 
beholder,  in  a  spacious  level  country,  inter 
sected  in  a  hundred  directions  by  roads  and 
pathways,  and  studded  at  every  point  with 
splendid  villas  and  thatched  cottages ;  teeming 
all  around  with  the  luxurious  vegetation  of  a 
southern  climate,  and  bounded  north  and  west 
by  two  gulfs,  whence,  again,  the  dark  blue 
sea  stretches  away  to  the  farthest  verge  of  the 
horizon. 

Turning  to  the  right,  and  directly  in  front  of 
the  beholder,  appears  now  the  last  road  on  the 
mountain,  adorned  on  one  side  by  a  natural 
line  of  wild  oaks,  blasted  and  hoary  by  weather 
and  age,  —  the  first  and  only  trees  to  be  met 
with  on  the  Pellegrino,  —  and  by  several  brick 
chapels  at  short  distances  apart 

At  the  termination  of  this  road,  and  precisely 
at  the  base  of  the  mountain's  loftiest  peak,  will 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  169 

be  found  a  capacious  grotto,  not  seen  at  first, 
for  it  is,  like  the  sepulchre  at  Jerusalem,  en 
closed  within  the  precincts  of  a  church.  -  On 
entering  the  church-gate,  you  stand  beneath  a 
portico,  supported  by  granite  columns.  Two 
old  sepulchral  marble  monuments  are  seen 
close  by  each  side  of  the  entrance ;  the  col 
umns,  the  tombs,  the  portico,  and  its  arched 
vaults,  all  mouldering  away  with  age  and  the 
continual  dampness  of  the  mountain.  Cross 
ing  thence,  over  a  gravelled,  moss-grown 
court,  walled  in  by  heavy  clustering  rocks, 
and  open  to  the  light  of  the  clear,  blue  vault 
above,  you  gain  admittance,  through  a  massive 
iron  fence,  into  the  grotto.  A  range  of  high- 
backed  seats,  of  carved  and  finely-polished 
oak,  is  on  each  side  of  the  entrance,  for  the 
use  of  the  officiating  priests,  similar  to  those 
found  in  every  cathedral  in  the  old  country. 
Dark  masses  of  brown  and  mossy  rocks,  many 
of  them  shaped  like  icicles,  and  incrusted  with 
glittering  stalactites,  project  from  the  vaults 
and  the  bottom  of  the  cave. 

All  here  is  cheerless  and  awfully  still.  The 
dead  silence  and  solemn  darkness  of  the  place 
are  only  interrupted  by  the  slow,  perpetual 


170  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

dropping  of  the  mountain  waters,  and  the  lu 
gubrious  glimmering  of  a  few  tapers,  ever 
burning  on  the  altar. 

For  a  temporal  abode  in  this  melancholy 
grotto,  and  to  breathe  out  her  life  in  commu 
nion  with  him  whose  still,  small  voice,  once 
gladdened  the  Prophet  in  the  mouth  of  his 
mountain  cave,  did  the  lovely  heiress  of  royal 
honors  resign  them  all,  together  with  the  gaiety 
of  a  court  and  the  splendor  of  a  palace.  To 
this  wild  scene  and  dismal  retreat  did  the 
beautiful  Rosalia,  alone,  defenceless,  and  frail 
as  the  solitary  mountain  flower  she  passed,  at 
length  make  her  way.  And  here  did  she 
attain  the  end  of  her  one  great  desire,  a  sure 
and  final  refuge  from  human  pursuit  and  all 
'the  lying  vanities  of  life.'  In  this  shadowy 
desert  sanctuary  was  her  pure  spirit  exhaled  to 
its  Father  in  Heaven,  and  in  this  stupendous 
sepulchre,  robed  in  the  pilgrim's  sackcloth,  lay 
the  remains  of  this  fair  daughter  of  kings,  un 
touched,  unseen,  while  centuries  rolled  away. 

What  hardships  the  pious  young  fugitive 
had  to  suffer  in  her  journey  up  the  mountain, 
where  the  difficulties  must  have  required 
almost  superhuman  power  to  overcome  them ; 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  171 

what  was  the  life  she  led  in  this  solitude ;  what 
were  her  exercises  here,  or  how  she  could  pos 
sibly  have  been  nourished,  in  a  place  hardly 
affording  the  extreme  necessities  of  human 
nature  the  scanty  luxury  of  water,  and  a  few 
roots  to  be  gathered  among  the  stones  and 
crevices,  are  all  things  which  no  one,  to  this 
day,  has  been  able  to  ascertain.  Nor  are  there 
any  data  whereby  to  judge  how  long  she  con 
tinued  here,  or  at  what  period  of  her  life  God 
was  pleased  to  call  this  innocent,  self-sacri 
ficing  victim  home  to  his  kingdom. 

Days,  months,  and  years  went  by,  after  her 
mysterious  disappearance;  but  nothing  was 
heard  of  the  fugitive  maiden,  whom  many 
believed  to  have  been  translated  to  heaven. 
Time,  and  the  common  destiny  of  human 
affairs,  swept  slowly  from  the  face  of  the  earth 
the  worldly  splendor,  the  race,  and  almost  the 
name  of  her  royal  fathers.  Generation  fol 
lowed  generation  to  the  grave,  burying  her 
memory,  and  all  curiosity  about  her  fate,  in  the 
dust  and  oblivion  of  the  past. 

Nearly  five  centuries  after  the  flight  of  Rosa 
lia,  in  the  year  1624,  one  of  those  awful  calam 
ities  which  Divine  Justice  sometimes  sends 


172 


SAINT    ROSALIA. 


among  men,  as  a  fearful  warning  of  its  omnip 
otence,  visited  Palermo.  A  fierce  pestilence, 
the  plague,  raged  among  its  inhabitants,  spar 
ing  neither  age  nor  sex,  while  with  its  blasting 
breath,  it  swept  alike  through  the  luxurious 
gilded  mansion  of  the  rich,  and  the  humble 
abode  of  the  poor.  Its  victims  fell  in  hun 
dreds,  and  faster  than  there  was  time  to  give 
them  burial.  Heaps  of  the  dead  were  lying  in 
the  deserted  streets,  which  presented  a  hideous 
melange  of  trophies  of  the  destroyer.  A  dull, 
heavy  atmosphere  veiled  the  face  of  heaven, 
shutting  out  from  the  eyes  of  the  dying  the 
view  of  its  serene  azure ;  and  the  sun,  no  lon 
ger  seen  rising  with  a  smile  in  the  east,  came 
up,  sickly  and  pale,  to  send  his  parching  shafts 
through  a  fiery  mist,  till  he  went  down,  bloody 
and  burning,  in  the  west,  to  give  place  to  a 
breezeless,  dewless,  and  more  desolate  night. 

The  terrible  scourge,  instead  of  showing  any 
abatement,  seemed  daily  to  increase  in  strength 
and  virulence.  Those  who  in  person  were  yet 
untouched  by  the  fatal  malady,  haggard  and 
ghastly,  gave  themselves  up  to  despair,  feeling 
that  they  were  at  the  extreme  of  all  hope,  save 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  173 

in  Him  whose  righteous  indignation  they  had, 
by  their  sins,  wilfully  provoked. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  July,  when  a 
venerable  man,  whose  life  had  been  that  of  a 
hunter,  retired  from  the  city,  to  ramble  among 
the  rocks  of  Monte  Pellegrino,  perhaps  in  quest 
of  game,  or  to  avoid  the  sweeping  malady.  Or, 
having  lost  by  its  ravages  all  that  was  dear  to 
him,  he  might  have  gone  up  into  the  mountain 
solitude  to  let  his  heart  bleed  to  death  through 
the  severed  ties  of  his  affections,  peacefully  and 
alone,  Overcome  by  fatigue  and  the  noontide 
heat,  he  sought  rest  and  shelter .  from  the  sun, 
in  a  cave  near  him,  which  offered  a  cool  shade, 
though  but  a  stony  pillow.  Entering  it,  he 
laid  himself  down  on  a  rocky  couch,  and  was 
soon  lost  in  a  deep  sleep.  He  dreamed.  A 
sweet  voice,  like  the  gentle  murmurings  of  a 
silvery  fountain,  or  the  music  of  a  harp  deli 
cately  touched  by  aerial  fingers,  seemed  steal 
ing  on  his  delighted  sense,  and  softly  whisper 
ing,  to  pronounce  his  name.  He  awoke. 
Opening  his  eyes,  and  turning  them  to  the 
direction  whence  the  voice  came,  by  an  open 
ing  over  the  side  of  the  grotto,  he  beheld  the 
appearance  of  a  beautiful  being,  whose  delicate 


174  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

form,  in  reclining  attitude,  seemed  in  sweet 
repose.  The  novelty  and  strangeness  of  the 
apparition,  the  angelic  beauty  and  heavenly 
brightness  that  shone  in  the  features  and  ex 
pression  of  its  face,  had  seized  the  poor  wan 
derer  with  amazement  and  awe,  when  again 
he  heard  the  voice,  which  thus  addressed  him : 

'Fear  not,  good  mortal!  fear  not!  I  am 
Rosalia  Sinibaldi,  once  the  royal  child  of  kings 
who  reigned  over  yonder  city,  now  a  saint  of 
God,  to  whom  I  was  faithfully  devoted  during 
my  life  of  seclusion  in  this  grotto,  and  whose 
presence  I  now  enjoy  among  his  blessed  iri 
heaven.  Thence  have  I  beheld  the  deep 
misery  of  my  native  city;  and  my  heavenly 
Father,  through  my  intercession,  is  at  last 
pleased  to  deliver  it  from  the  ravages  of  the 
pestilence.  Haste,  -then,  to  the  city,  and  bid 
the  people  rejoice ;  and,  in  token  of  their  grati 
tude,  let  them  come  here,  to  remove  my  mortal 
remains,  which,  uncoffined,  unentombed,  are 
now  lying  there,  (and  she  pointed  to  the  spot) 
to  give  them  the  hallowed  rest  of  an  honored 
grave ! ' 

The  favored  huntsman  recovered  his  spirits, 
and  hastened  on  his  gracious  errand  to  the 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  175 

suffering  city.  The  excitement  caused  by  his 
wonderful  tidings  was  intense;  and  rays  of 
hope  began  to  dart  through  the  clouds  of  mel 
ancholy  that  shrouded  the  people.  In  a  few 
hours,  the  clergy,  the  magistrates,  and  the 
nobles  of  the  city,  followed  by  a  long  train  of 
people,  were  seen  winding  their  way  up  the 
mountain,  and  there  gathering  within  and 
about  the  cave. 

Directed  by  the  hunter,  on  the  spot  pointed 
out  by  the  vision,  they  found  the  frail  remains 
of  Rosalia,  which,  with  great  reverence,  and 
the  anxious  expectations  of  religious  faith,  they 
removed  to  the  city.  Three  days  they  bore 
them  through  all  the  streets  of  Palermo.  On 
the  fourth  appeared  signs  of  the  staying  of 
the  plague.  Gusts  of  wind  rose  from  every 
quarter,  followed  by  heavy  drops  of  rain, 
which  presently  increased  to  copious  showers, 
whose  refreshing  influence  revived  the  aspect 
of  nature,  and  quickened  her  nearly  exhausted 
sources  of  life.  By  the  end  of  the  month,  the 
malady  had  disappeared. 

Then  it  was,  that,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  their 
gratitude  for  miraculous  relief,  the  people  of 
Palermo  erected  an  altar  over  the  spot  where 


176  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

the  relies  of  their  blessed  Rosalia  were  found ; 
and  deposited  them  in  a  silver  monument,  kept 
to  this  day  in  a  magnificent  chapel  in  their 
cathedral.  They  placed  her  on  their  calendar, 
and  electing  her  their  tutelar  Saint,  instituted 
a  solemn  annual  festival  of  prayer  and  thanks 
giving,  which  is  still  celebrated  yearly,  in  the 
middle  of  July,  in  commemoration  of  the  dis 
tressing  events  and  the  happy  deliverance. 

But,  amid  all  the  splendor  and  magnificence 
of  these  festivals,  Monte  Pellegrino  and  its 
grotto  have  ever  been,  and  will  continue  to  be, 
the  chief  objects  of  devotional  interest  to  the 
whole  people.  Pilgrims,  male  and  female,  old 
and  young,  of  every  rank  and  condition,  go 
yearly  and  monthly,  from  the  most  distant 
parts  of  the  island,  to  visit  their  hallowed 
mountain,  and  the  shrine  of  Rosalia. 

The  poor  fisherman,  in  his  lighted  boat, 
gliding  silently  along  the  shore,  cheers  on  his 
nightly  toil,  singing  the  praises  of  the  pilgrim 
Saint,  and  looks,  now  and  then,  with  mingled 
emotions  of  affection  and  awe,  at  the  huge 
mountain  overshadowing  the  rippling  bay. 
The  long-absent  wanderer  greets  first,  on  his 
return,  the  airy  summits  of  his  beloved  Pelle- 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  177 

grino,  gracefully  pointing  to  the  sky,  now 
bathed  in  the  gorgeous  tints  of  the  blushing 
morning  — now  glistening  to  the  rays  of  the 
rising  sun. 

His  fluttering  heart  flies  before  the  wind, 
quicker  far  than  the  gallant  bark  that  bears  him 
on ;  and,  as  he  draws  near,  he  recognizes  in 
every  peak  of  that  mountain,  a  dear  friend  of 
his  childhood ;  and  feels  that  he  can  now  die 
in  peace,  for  he  dies  at  home. 


Such  are  '  the  historical  facts  that  are  au 
thentic ;  and  the  traditions  and  notions,  re 
ligious  and  superstitious^  which,  it  will  be 
remembered,  my  Sicilian  friend  engaged  to  lay 
before  me ;  and  these  classes  are  easily  distin 
guished. 

That  the  fair  young  princess,  Rosalia,  was 
'piously  given,'  is  undoubtedly  true.  That, 
her  mind  being  awakened  to  the  subject  of  re 
ligion,  and  a  fitness  of  state  for  the  kingdom 
of  heaven,  she  felt  the  need  of  a  change  of 
heart,  and  a  'conscience  purged  from  dead 
12 


178  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

works,'  may  readily  be  believed  by  every  ex 
perimental  Christian. 

That,  thus  exercised,  her  spirit  sighed  for 
tranquillity,  and  yearned  after  a  holier  atmos 
phere,  and  more  congenial  society  than  sur 
rounded  her  in  the  centre  of  court  scenes  of 
that  day,  till  she  might  calmly  regulate  the 
momentous  concerns  of  her  soul;  and  be  firmly 
established  on  the  Rock  of  Ages,  will  easily  be 
conceived  and  understood.  It  will  also  appear 
clear,  that,  at  her  tender  age,  with  no  proper 
spiritual  adviser,  and  .not  permitted  to  read  the 
revealed  Word  of  God  for  herself,  to  the  en 
lightening  of  her  mental  vision,  her  mind,  yet 
that  of  a  child,  was  strongly  wrought  upon, 
her  understanding  beclouded,  and  her  imagina 
tion  highly  excited ;  till  at  length  reason  tottered, 
and  she  became  the  victim  of  a  wild  and  fatal 
delusion. 

With  this  view  of  :her  character,  and  her 
position  in  life,  where  her  young  heart  must 
have  borne  secretly  and  alone  its  great  struggle 
with  the  warring  influences  from  within  and 
without  her,  all  Christian  charity  must  hope 
that  her  error  of  judgment  was  expiated  by 
the  sincere  purity  of  her  motive,  and  her  suffer- 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  179 

ings ;  that  her  self-immolation,  for  no  possible 
good  end  on  earth  ;  was  wept  out  by  the  tears 
of  mercy  from  the  recording  angel's  book,  and 
she  finally  accepted  among  the  heirs  of  the 
heavenly  kingdom. 

Without  these  apologetic  considerations ;  and 
trying  her  course,  after  she  believed  herself  to 
have  received  a  special  divine  call,  by  the 
touch-stone  of  gospel  teaching  and  example, 
or  that  of  the  older  dispensation,  what  can  we 
make  of  her  running  away  from  her  fond  pa 
rents,  contrary  to  the  holy  laws  of  nature,  and 
the  duties  imposed  by  revelation ;  and  thus 
burying,  not  only  her  talents,  but  herself  and 
her  life,  in  more  than  *  a  napkin,'  even  in  the 
rocks  and  mountains  ? 

But  she  did  not  know,  when  she  inscribed 
her  intention  on  the  cavern  rock,  the  story  of 
him  who  once  hid  himself  in  a  similar  place, 
because,  as  he  said,  he  l  was  very  jealous  for 
the  Lord ; '  and  who  received  the  reproving 
demand,  What  doest  thou  here,  Elijah  ? 

She  had  not  been  permitted  to  study  for  her 
self  the  lives  of  Dorcas,  Lydia,  and  the  other 
holy  women  of  scripture ;  or  surely,  if  she 
wished  to  lead  a  truly  Christian  life,  she  would 


180  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

have  found  very  different  means  of  consecrat 
ing  herself  to  the  cause  of  that  holy  God,  who 
will  have  mercy  before  sacrifice ;  and  of  show 
ing  that  her  life  was  hid  in  Christ,  whose  whole 
days  on  earth  were  spent  in  teaching,  and 
1  going  about  doing  good.' 

She  had  never  learnt  that  the  great  secret  of 
the  spirit  of  Christianity  is,  to  be  in,  but  not  o/, 
the  world.  She  had  not  been  taught  the  all- 
important  truth,  that  the  world  is  the  furnace 
into  which  the  children  of  the  kingdom  are 
cast,  to  be  tried ;  and  where  they  must  be  seen 
of  men  l  walking  in  the  midst  of  the  fire,'  and 
one  with  them,  in  form,  '  like  the  Son  of  God.' 

Had  Rosalia  known  and  understood  the 
words  of  the  holy  Founder  of  the  religion  to 
which  she  aimed  to  be  a  devotee,  '  Ye  are 
the  salt  of  the  earth,'  '  Ye  are  the  light  of  the 
world,'  and  other  similar  precepts,  how,  if  she 
was  in  her  right  mind,  could  she  justify  her 
own  conduct,  or  expect  to  render  up  her  ac 
count  ? 

How  do  the  fair  enthusiasts  who,  in  modern 
times,  would  follow  her  example,  as  far  as  the 
present  state  of  society  and  the  thickly  peopled 
world  render  it  practicable,  apply  these  teach- 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  181 

ings,  when  they  put  their  £  candle  under  a 
bushel/  and  do  the  most  they  can  to  prevent 
the  earth  and  the  world  from  knowing  whether 
they  be  salt  or  not  ?  For,  if  they  cannot,  from 
the  centre  of  civilized  society,  decently  scram 
ble  up  into  the  rugged  mountain-tops,  and 
deposit  themselves  among  the  old  grey  rocks, 
where  all  the  salt  that  ever  the  little  pilgrim 
saint  possessed,  went  to  preserve  her  royal  re 
mains  ;  they  make  monastic  walls  the  substitute 
for  that  sublimer  retreat,  where,  in  a  literal 
sense  at  least,  she  could  for  once  say,  she  had 
the  world  beneath  her  feet. 

Rosalia's  mistake  was  worthy  of  the  state  of 
error  and  ignorance  of  the  social  system  into 
which  she  was  born,  the  dark  ages  in  which 
she  and  her  ancestors  lived,  and  the  moral 
degradation  which  must  have  been  the  conse 
quence  of  this  gross  darkness,  as  well  as  the 
perpetuating  cause  of  it.  On  this,  the  pious 
little  maiden  looked  round ;  and,  affrighted  at 
the  view,  like  a  timid  bird,  spread  her  wings 
and  flew  to  the  mountain  peak. 

If  the  holiest  thing  that  a  saint  could  do,  in 
that  day,  was  to  flee  from  all  trial,  and  beyond 
the  power  and  opportunity  of  benefiting  others, 


182  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

or  of  growing  in  grace  by  contact  with  those 
who  had  none,  (which  is  certainly  one  of  the 
greatest  trials  of  faith  which  the  righteous  are 
called  to  endure,)  wickedness  must  have  pre 
vailed.  And  when  He,  who  from  his  holy 
throne  looked  down  on  the  scene  of  disobe 
dience  to  his  commands,  had  sent  the  destroy 
ing  angel  in  the  form  of  the  raging  plague,  to 
make  known  his  displeasure ;  it  is  not  strange 
that  the  awakened  consciences  of  the  survivors 
of  the  multitudes,  mown  down  by  his  sickle, 
should  have  caught  at  any  hold  of  hope  and 
trust. 

The  dream  of  the  wandering  hunter,  during, 
perhaps,  the  first  sleep  he  had  fallen  into,  after 
a  long  and  wearisome  watch  amid  the  dead 
and  the  despairing,  and  this,  too,  where  he 
probably  caught  a  view  of  the  remains,  between 
sleeping  and  waking,  furnished  some  little 
ground  for  superstitious  belief,  in  a  moment  of 
despair,  to  rest  upon.  The  return  of  Rosalia 
to  her  native  city  happened,  probably,  when 
He  who  sent  the  judgment,  had  beheld  the 
penitence  of  the  people,  and  was  about  to  avert 
it,  by  using  the  elements  as  his  ministers  of 


SAINT    ROSALIA.  183 

mercy,  to  dispel  the  malaria,  and  refresh  man 
and  nature  with  the  shower  and  the  breeze. 

If  they  who  yielded  implicit  belief  and  con 
fidence  to  the  miracle  of  the  saint's  bones,  ad 
duced,  as  the  ground  of  this  credence,  the  case 
of  the  young  man  restored  to  life  by  touching 
the  bones  of  Elisha  —  and  I  can  think  of  no 
other  possible  foundation  for  it  —  how  little  did 
they  understand  the  holy  written  word,  and  the 
end  of  the  miracles  recorded  therein !  The 
prophets  were  themselves  the  book  of  God's 
revealed  will ;  their  minds  the  pages  on  which 
he  imprinted  it  by  the  power  of  his  Spirit ;  and 
he  sent  his  angel  to  touch  their  lips,  as  with  a 
coal  from  off  his  altar,  to  speak  it  forth.  They 
were  the  medium  through  which  he  made  him 
self  known;  and  types  of  the  Messiah,  who 
was  to  come  in  fulfilment  of  the  promises 
which  they  delivered,  and  the  things  they  shad 
owed  forth. 

This  miracle  was  probably  designed  by  God 
to  witness  to  man  the  truth  of  what  Elisha 
had  taught,  and  as  an  evidence  of  his  having 
been  anointed  his  chosen  messenger.  He  no 
doubt  also  designed  this  instance  of  raising  the 
dead,  as  typical  of  what  Christ,  though  he  suf- 


184  SAINT    ROSALIA. 

fered  the  death  of  the  body,  would  accomplish, 
in  victory  over  spiritual  death  for  his  believers  ; 
and  of  his  triumph  over  the  grave. 

But  Christ  has  come ;  and  his  gospel  is  with 
man.  And  the  great,  inexplicable  wonder  is, 
how  they,  who  in  the  present  day  of  light  and 
knowledge,  possess  the  volume  of  Eternal  Truth, 
and  profess  to  believe  and  trust  in  it,  can  be  so 
deluded,  (for  I  would  not  deem  it  insincerity,) 
as  to  withhold  the  worship  which  belongs  alone 
to  the  Saviour  of  man,  to  bestow  it  on  the 
bones  of  a  weak$  bewildered  girl,  who  never 
did  any  known  good  in  his  cause;  or  on  images 
made  by  their  own  hands,  and  called  by  her 
name. 

It  is  clinging  to  a  relic  of  the  dark  ages, 
with  a  preposterous  credulity  and  lenaclous- 
ness  worthy  of  darkness  in  any  age.  The 
absurd  pageant,  and  solemn  pomp  of  circum 
stance,  annually  exhibited  on  the  recurrence  of 
this  saint's  festival,  reminds  one  irresistibly  of 
a  scene  on  the  Plain  of  Dura,  where  '  The 
princes,  the  governors,  and  captains,  the  judges, 
the  treasurers,  the  counsellors,  the  sheriilV,  arid 
the  rulers  of  the  provinces.,  were  gathered  to 
gether  unto  the  dedication  of  the  image.' 


THE   ANGEL  OF  THE   LEAVES. 


'  ALAS  !  alas ! '  said  the  sorrowing  tree,  *  my 
my  beautiful  robe  is  gone ;  it  has  been  torn 
from  me!  Its  faded  pieces  whirl  upon  the 
wind;  they  rustle  beneath  the  squirrel's  foot, 
as  he  searches  for  his  nut ;  they  float  upon  the 
passing  stream,  and  on  the  quivering  lake. 
Woe  is  me !  for  my  dear  green  vesture  is  gone. 
It  was  the  gift  of  the  Angel  of  the  Leaves !  I 
have  lost  it,  and  my  glory  has  vanished ;  my 
beauty  has  disappeared;  my  summer  honors 
have  passed  away.  My  bright  and  comely 
garment,  alas!  it  is  rent  into  a  thousand  parts. 
Who  will  weave  me  such  another  ?  Piece  by 
piece  has  it  been  stripped  from  me.  Scarcely 
did  I  sigh  for  the  loss  of  one,  ere  another  wan 
dered  off  on  air.  The  sweet  sound  of  music 
cheers  me  no  more.  The  birds  that  sang  in 


186      THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  LEAVES. 

my  bosom,  were  dismayed  at  my  desolation  — 
they  have  flown  away  with  their  songs. 

'  I  stood  in  my  pride.  The  sun  brightened 
my  robe  with  his  smile ;  the  zephyrs  breathed 
softly  through  its  glossy  folds;  the  clouds 
strewed  pearls  among  them.  My  shadow  was 
wide  upon  the  earth ;  my  arms  spread  far  on 
the  gentle  air ;  my  head  was  lifted  high,  and  my 
forehead  was  fair  to  the  heavens.  But  now, 
how  changed !  Sadness  is  upon  me ;  my  head 
is  shorn;  my  arms  are  stripped;  I  cannot 
throw  a  shadow  on  the  ground.  Beauty  has 
departed ;  gladness  is  gone  out  of  my  bosom. 
The  blood  has  retired  from  my  heart,  and  sunk 
into  the  earth.  I  am  thirsty.  I  am  cold.  My 
naked  limbs  shiver  in  the  chilly  air ;  the  keen 
blast  cpmes  pitiless  among  them.  The  winter 
is  coming.  I  am  destitute.  Sorrow  is  my 
portion ;  mourning  must  wear  me  away.  How 
shall  I  account  to  the  angel,  who  clothed  me, 
for  the  loss  of  his  beautiful  gift  ? ' 

The  angel  had  been  listening.  In  soothing 
accents  he  answered  the  lamentation. 

'  My  beloved  Tree,'  said  he,  *  be  comforted ! 
I  am  by  thee  still,  though  every  leaf  has  for 
saken  thee.  The  voice  of  gladness  is  hushed 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  LEAVES.      187 

among  thy  boughs ;  but  let  my  whisper  con 
sole  thee.  Thy  sorrow  is  but  for  a  season. 
Trust  in  me.  Keep  my  promise  in  thy  heart. 
Be  patient  and  full  of  hope.  Let  the  words  I 
leave  with  thee,  abide,  and  cheer  thee  through 
the  coming  winter.  Then  will  I  return  and 
clothe  thee  anew. 

'  The  storm  will  drive  rudely  over  thee ;  the 
snow  will  sift  among  thy  naked  limbs.  But 
these  will  be  light  and  passing  afflictions.  The 
ice  will  weigh  heavily  on  thy  helpless  arms ; 
but  it  shall  soon  dissolve  to  tears.  It  shall  pass 
into  the  ground,  and  be  drunken  by  thy  roots. 
Then  will  it  creep  up,  in  secret,  beneath  thy 
bark,  and  spread  into  the  branches  it  has  op 
pressed  ;  and  help  to  adorn  them.  I  shall  be 
here  to  use  it ! 

'  Thy  blood  has  now  retired  for  safety.  The 
frost  would  chill  and  destroy  it.  It  has  gone 
into  thy  mother's  bosom,  for  her  to  keep  it 
warm.  Earth  will  not  rob  her  offspring.  She 
is  a  careful  parent.  She  knows  the  wants  of 
all  her  children,  and  forgets  not  to  provide  for 
the  least  of  them.  The  sap  that  has  for  awhile 
gone  down,  will  make  thy  roots  strike  deeper, 


188 


THE    ANGEL    OF    THE    LEAVES. 


and  spread  wider;  and,  renewed  and  strength 
ened,  it  shall  return  to  nourish  thy  heart. 
Then,  if  thou  shalt  have  remembered  and 
trusted  in  my  promise,  I  will  fulfil  it.  Buds 
shall  shoot  forth  on  every  bough.  I  will  un 
fold  another  robe  for  thee.  I  will  color  and  fit 
it  in  every  part.  It  shall  be  a  comely  raiment. 
Thou  shalt  forget  thy  present  sorrow.  Sad 
ness  shall  be  swallowed  up  of  joy.  Now,  my 
beloved  Tree,  fare  thee  well  for  a  season ! ' 

The  Angel  was  gone.  The  cold,  mutter 
ing,  winter  drew  near.  The  wild  blast  whis 
tled  for  the  storm.  The  storm  came,  and 
howled  around  the  tree.  But  the  word  of  the 
angel  was  hidden  in  her  heart.  It  soothed  her 
amid  the  threatenings  of  the  tempest.  The 
ice-cakes  rattled  on  her  limbs,  and  loaded  and 
weighed  them  down. 

*  My  slender  branches,'  said  she,  '  let  not  this 
burden  overcome  you!  Break  not  beneath 
this  heavy  affliction  —  break  not!  but  bend,  till 
you  can  spring  back  to  your  places.  Let  not 
a  twig  of  you  be  lost !  Hope  must  prop  you 
up  for  a  while,  and  the  angel  will  reward  your 
patience.  You  will  wave  in  a  softer  air. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  LEAVES.      189 

Grace  shall  be  again  in  your  motion,  and  a 
renewed  beauty  hang  around  you.' 

The  scowling  face  of  winter  began  to  lose 
its  features.  The  raging  storm  grew  faint,  and 
breathed  its  last.  The  restless  clouds  fretted 
themselves  to  fragments;  these  scattered  on 
the  sky,  and  were  brushed  away.  The  sun 
threw  down  a  bundle  of  golden  arrows,  that 
fell  upon  the  tree.  The  ice-cakes  glittered  as 
they  came.  Every  one  was  shattered  by  a 
shaft,  and  unlocked  itself  upon  the  limb.  They 
melted,  and  were  gone. 

Spring  had  come  to  reign.  Her  blessed 
ministers  were  abroad  in  the  earth.  They 
hovered  in  the  air.  They  blended  their  beauti 
ful  tints,  and  cast  a  new-created  glory  on  the 
face  of  the  heavens. 

The  Tree  was  rewarded  for  her  trust.  The 
angel  was  true  to  the  object  of  his  love.  He 
returned  —  he  bestowed  on  her  another  robe. 
It  was  bright,  glossy,  and  unsullied.  The  dust 
of  summer  had  never  lit  upon  it ;  the  scorching 
heat  had  not  faded  it  —  the  moth  had  not  pro 
faned  it.  The  tree  stood  again  in  loveliness  ; 
she  was  dressed  in  more  than  her  former 


190      THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  LEAVES. 

beauty.  She  was  very  fair.  Joy  smiled  around 
her  on  every  side.  The  birds  flew  back  to  her 
bosom,  and  sang  among  her  branches  their 
hymns  to  the  ANGEL  OF  THE  LEAVES  ! 


THE  SISTER  THERESE. 


THE  following  little  story  is  drawn,  as  a  fine 
silver  thread,  from  among  the  many  of  a  sadder 
and  more  fearful  hue,  that  make  up  the  crim 
son  cord  of  the  history  of  that  bloody  period, 
the  reign  of  terror,  in  France.  It  is  given  by 
a  French  author  of  veracity,  in  his  writings 
concerning  the  events  of  that  day,  from  whom 
it  is  here  rather  recounted  than  translated. 

Among  the  unfortunate  subjects  of  the 
tyranny  of  Robespierre  and  his  associates  in 
audacious  cruelty,  who  were  thrown  into  the 
prison  of  Bordeaux,  to  await  their  turn  at  the 
guillotine,  should  it  please  the  monsters  to  find 
them  guilty  of  opposing  their  designs,  or  stand 
ing  in  their  way  to  rule,  was  Henri  Delorbe,  a 
young  citizen  of  the  place,  and  one  of  birth 
and  fortune. 


192  THE    SISTER    THERESE. 

In  the  person  of  Delorbe,  a  striking  manly 
beauty  of  face  and  form,  and  a  noble  and  win 
ning  grace  of  deportment,  were  united  with  a 
richly  endowed  mind,  and  rigidly  virtuous  and 
patriotic  principles. 

The  horrors  of  his  situation  and  impending 
fate,  preying  on  his  spirits,  and  the  miasma  of 
the  prison  infusing  poison  into  his  frame  with 
every  breath,  proved  too  much  for  his  physical 
energies  to  resist. 

4  The  spirit  of  a  man  may  sustain  his  infirmi 
ties  ;  but  a  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear  ? ' 
Nature's  forces  in  the  constitution  of  the  young 
prisoner,  sapped  by  his  accumulated  ills,  were 
made  for  a  while  to  succumb.  He  was  brought 
low  by  sickness,  and  thought  near  to  death. 
In  this  state  of  languishment  and  prostration, 
it  was  permitted  him  to  be  removed  to  the 
hospital,  where  the  kind  Sisters  of  Charity  lent 
their  benevolent  services  —  attending  on  the 
sick,  relieving  their  wants,  and  closing  the  eyes 
that  were  to  wake  no  more. 

It  fell  to  the  lot  of  Delorbe,  to  have  his  min 
istering  angel  appointed  in  the  form  of  the 
young  Sister  Therese  —  a  gentle,  warm-hearted, 
compassionate  girl,  who,  having  renounced  the 


THE    SISTER    THERESE.  193 

world  and  eschewed  its  allurements,  felt  but  a 
single  desire  to  do  good,  and  keep  the  lamp  of 
her  profession  filled  with  the  oil  of  grace,  and 
this  in  the  lively  exercise  of  burning,  while  she 
watched  over  the  sick,  endeavored  to  soften 
their  sufferings,  to  keep  up  the  nickering  flame 
of  life,  or,  when  it  must  be,  smoothed  the  pil 
low  of  the  dying. 

Therese  had  never  heard  of  the  close  alliance 
of  Cupid  and  Psyche ;  nor,  though  she  owned 
that  she  had  a-  heart  '  desperately  wicked,'  had 
she  ever  suspected  it  of  containing  a  latent 
spark  to  which  a  random  arrow  from  the  little 
blind  archer,  striking  her  unawares,  might  open 
a  vent  that  would  kindle  it  up  to  light. 

The  pleasing  exterior  of  the  young  stranger 
had  at  first  won  her  particular  regard,  and 
drawn  out  her  sympathy  towards  him  in  his 
suffering  state.  But,  as  his  character  disclosed 
itself,  and  he  recounted  to  her  his  misfortunes 
and  his  fears,  compassion  completed  what  a 
tender  interest  had  begun  in  the  bosom  that 
had  never  known  itself  susceptible  of  any  but 
a  heavenly  love ;  while  she  resolved  to  do  all 
in  her  power  to  restore  him  to  health,  and, 
should  he  be  raised  up,  to  effect  his  liberation. 
13 


194  THE    SISTER    THERESE. 

And  the  pretty  nun  had  not  only  charity,  which 
hopeth  all  things,  but  ingenuity,  that  can  seek 
out  many  inventions. 

Her  faith  and  works  were  at  length  blessed 
in  the  manifestation  of  signs  that  the  disease 
had  run  to  its  limits,  and  was  giving  way  be 
fore  the  superior  powers  in  the  constitution  of 
her  patient.  But  her  own  heart  had  become 
agitated  by  a  strange  uneasiness  — •  the  seat  of 
a  new  malady,  which  the  physicians  do  not 
count  with  the  self-limited  diseases,  or  reckon 
among  those  within  the  sphere  of  their  medi 
cal  practice  ;  and  about  which  the  metaphysi 
cian  talks  very  smoothly  and  wisely,  while  he 
can  neither  solve  its  nature,  calculate  its  dura- 
lion,  prescribe  an  antidote  against  it,  or  resist 
its  attacks. 

Yet,  among  her  most  earthly  thoughts,  The- 
rese  admitted  not  the  shadow  of  a  possibility 
of  her  ever  seeing  Delorbe  beyond  the  walls 
that  then  enclosed  them,  should  he  regain  his 
health  and  liberty.  She  only  wished  that  he 
might  go  forth  to  life  and  freedom,  and  be 
happy,  and  make  others  so,  while  she  remained 
behind,  dead  to  the  world,  but  alive  to  memory, 
to  keep  her  vows,  but  to  think  of  him  ;  and,  if 


THE    SISTER    THERESE.  195 

this  were  sinful,  to  get  absolved,  and  then  go 
on  and  sin  again  ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  she 
could  but  shudder  at  the  thought  of  letting  her 
heart  run  so  far  astray  as  to  twine  its  conse 
crated  strings  around  any  earthly  object.  Nor 
did  she  let  the  secret  of  her  bosom  escape  in 
word,  or  deed,  or  look ;  but,  like  a  good  little 
Sister  of  Charity,  she  kept  her  sentiments  to 
herself,  and  gave  her  attention  to  her  duties 
and  her  charge. 

Meantime,  the  soft  sensibilities  of  the  sick 
man  had  not  been  deadened  or  idle,  under  the 
care  of  his  gentle  nurse.  '  Patience,'  says  one 
student  of  the  human  affections,  i  is  the  art  of 
hoping.'  This  was  illustrated  in  the  diligent 
assiduities  of  Therese  towards  the  object  of 
her  kindness.  *  Hope,'  says  another,  *  is  the 
dream  of  a  waking  man.'  This  might  also 
have  been  pronounced  true  concerning  Del- 
orbe,  could  his  thoughts  have  been  read  as  they 
passed  unuttered  through  his  mind.  Strange 
as  it  may  seem  to  those  who  do  not  know  how 
wildly  and  perversely  the  wayward  human 
heart  will  sometimes  take  upon  itself  to  act, 
independently  of  the  reasoning  head  —  while 
the  invalid  was  yet  uncertain  whether  he  were 


196  THE    SISTER    THERESE. 

virtually  a  beheaded  man  or  not,  but  certain 
that  his  benefactress  had  renounced  the  world, 
and  professed  herself  as  the  bride  of  heaven, 
dead  to  earthly  attachments  —  his  heart  had 
warmed  as  with  new  vitality  beneath  her  care, 
and  had  been  shooting  out  its  young  affections 
after  her,  like  the  roots  of  an  air-plant,  that 
grow  without  ground,  and  live  on  the  wind 
that  agitates  them. 

But  he,  too,  had  learnt  that  a  wise  man 
spareth  his  tongue,  especially  in  a  case  like 
his,  if  indeed  he  ever  had  a  predecessor ;  and 
he  kept  silence,  not  allowing  an  intimation  of 
his  penchant  for  the  fair  religieuse  to  escape, 
and  only  giving  utterance  to  his  heart  in  ex 
pression  of  gratitude  and  respect. 

At  length,  There se  had  fixed  on  a  way  and 
a  time  for  his  deliverance.  He  was  sick  and 
in  prison,  and  she  had  ministered  unto  him ; 
and  now  would  she  throw  open  the  prison- 
door  to  him  that  was  bound,  having  it  written 
as  a  law  upon  her  heart,  that  she  '  ought  to  do 
the  one  thing,  and  not  to  leave  the  other  un 
done.' 

But  here,  in  order  to  carry  out  her  design 
with  success,  it  became  necessary  for  her  to 


THE    SISTER    THERESE.  197 

confide  it  to  a  third  person,  and  obtain  his  aid. 
This  was  the  surgeon  of  the  hospital. 

On  the  trying  day,  she  instructed  her  patient 
to  feign  symptoms  like  the  approach  of  death, 
and  then,  after  a  hard  struggle  and  seeming 
agony,  to  sink  away  into  silence,  as  if  life  had 
departed,  a  little  while  before  the  hour  when 
the  attending  physician  was  to  make  his  accus 
tomed  round  among  the  sick.  Delorbe  obeyed 
her  like  a  docile  pupil,  for  he  saw 'that  she  well 
knew  how  to  employ  the  wisdom  of  the  ser 
pent  with  the  harmlessness  of  the  dove.  He 
affected  strong  paroxysms,  succeeding  languor, 
and  then  the  sleep  that  hath  no  dream.  His 
nurse  threw  up  the  sheet  over  his  face,  accord 
ing  to  the  custom,  when  a  patient  had  ceased 
to  breathe,  to  signify  that  he  was  no  more ;  and 
shortly  after  the  physician  entered.  He  looked 
towards  the  bed,  saw  what  he  supposed  to  be 
the  lifeless  form  stretched  beneath  the  sheet, 
asked  when  he  had  died,  and,  hardly  waiting 
for  an  answer,  further  than  a  partial  description 
of  the  sudden  change,  from  Therese,  passed 
on.  In  the  evening  she  intimated  that  the 
body  was  demanded  for  the  instruction  of  the 
pupils,  and  had  the  pretended  dead  removed 


198  THE    SISTER    THERESE. 

into  the  dissecting-room,  where  the  benevolent 
surgeon,  knowing  and  aiding  in  the  prosecu 
tion  of  her  plans,  with  a  skill  quite  different 
from  that  exercised  in  the  use  of  his  steel  in 
struments,  was  ready  with  a  second  suit  of  his 
own  apparel  for  his  subject,  whose  frame  he 
found  fit  rather  to  be  clothed  upon  than  anato 
mized,  and  in  a  state  of  comfortable  resuscita 
tion.  Delorbe  assumed  the  surgical  habit ;  and, 
under  the  disguise,  unsuspected,  passed  out  to 
a  safe  place  of  refuge.  The  next  day  the 
escape  was  discovered,  and  Therese  summoned 
and  questioned  by  the  powers  that  were.  The 
magnanimous  girl  threw  herself  upon  their 
mercy,  confessing  the  whole  truth  of  the  strata 
gem,  but  withholding  the  affair  of  her  heart  for 
a  higher  confessor  than  fallen  man ;  and  with 
such  show  of  ingenuous  contrition  for  the  du 
plicity  and  the  offence,  as  to  obtain  pardon  for 
the  crime,  and  absolution  from  the  sin. 

Before  he  left  the  hospital,  Delorbe  had  en 
gaged  his  benefactress  to  meet  him  in  his  asy 
lum,  that  he  might  once  more  express  his  sense 
of  the  great  debt  he  owed  her;  and  she  was 
not  slow  to  fulfil  her  promise.  Here,  much  to 
her  surprise,  her  protege  took  the  form  of  a 


THE    SISTER    THERESE.  199 

suitor,  and,  making  a  free  disclosure  of  his 
sentiments  and  his  wishes,  proffered  to  her  his 
hand  and  his  fortune  ;  and  the  future  devotion 
of  a  life  of  which  she  had,  in  a  twofold  sense, 
been  the  preserver ;  entreating  her  to  fly  with 
him  beyond  the  reach  of  pursuit,  where  her 
destiny  and  his  might  henceforth  be  one. 

The  pious,  gentle  sister  was  at  first  startled  — 
shocked  —  horrified,  at  the  thought  of  breaking 
her  religious  vows,  and  returning  to  the  ways 
of  temptation  and  worldly  vanities,  where  her 
gold  might  become  dim  in  the  fogs  of  earth ; 
her  fine  gold  be  changed  for  a  baser  metal  — 
her  love  of  heaven  stolen  away  by  a  mortal 
robber,  should  she  consent  to  be  a  mortal's 
bride.  But  her  heart  played  the  traitor  in  the 
very  moment  of  necessity,  and  pleaded  so 
strongly  in  behalf  of  her  lover's  proposal,  that 
she  could  not  for  her  life  rally  the  objections 
which  she  thought  it  was  her  duty  strenuously 
to  raise  against  it.  She  tried  to  reason  within 
herself.  '  The  pearl,'  thought  she,  '  while  locked 
up  in  the  shell,  is  safe  from  being  soiled  or  lost, 
even  among  the  rocky  caverns,  the  sands,  the 
sea- weeds,  and  the  monsters  of  the  deep ;  but  let 
it  out  of  its  native  casket,  unlock  its  closet,  and 


200 


THE    SISTER    THERESE. 


what  will  become  of  it  in  the  vast  ocean  ? '  Yet, 
there  were  other  bright  ideas  about  the  pearl, 
rising  up  in  opposition  to  these,  to  break  the 
ascetic  shell  of  seclusion  in  which  the  pretty 
nun  had  fain  kept  her  gem-like  spirit  incased. 
She  feared  they  came  from  the  tempter ;  but 
still  they  would  come!  She  thought  of  the 
pearl  brought  up  from  the  dismal  bottom  of 
the  sea  —  taken  out  of  its  dark  secrecy  into  the 
light  of  the  sun  —  set  as  an  ornament  on  the 
brow  of  a  king ;  of  the  words  of  a  certain 
wise  man,  calling  a  virtuous  woman  a  crown. 
Then  she  argued  that,  if  it  were  sinful  to  break 
her  covenant  vows,  and  go  back  to  an  evil 
world,  she  was  already  guilty  —  since  the 
wicked  desire  no  longer  to  remain  under  bond 
age  to  them  had  already  seized  her  heart,  and 
the  sin  of  the  heart  was  the  very  soul  of 
transgression ;  that  volition  being  tantamount 
to  the  outward,  actual  iniquity,  and  her  affec 
tions  being  gone  abroad  among  the  unsancti- 
fied,  and  into  the  ways  of  vanity,  head,  hand, 
and  foot  might  as  well  go  also  ;  as  her  former 
restricted  course  of  life  would  henceforth  be 
only  irksome. 

The  truth  was,  a  subtle  casuist  was  operat- 


THE    SISTER    THERESE.  201 

ing  on  her  wavering  soul.  Her  heart,  before 
so  peaceful  and  so  strongly  armed,  was  be 
sieged  by  circumvallation,  and  taken  in  its 
citadel.  When  she  had  prudently  paused, 
deliberated,  and  pondered  the  weighty  matter 
as  fairly  as  her  haste  and  agitation  would  let 
her  do,  finally,  as  the  young  bird  that,  having 
found  the  use  of  its  wings,  returns  to  the  nest 
no  more,  she  resolved '  to  keep  clear  of  the 
cloister,  and  to  entrust  her  future  temporal  des 
tiny,  for  better,  for  worse,  to  the  power  of  a 
new  temporal  lord  and  master. 

They  made  haste  to  depart,  and  passed  over 
into  Spain,  where  the  narrator,  whose  aim  was 
not  to  make  out  a  long  romantic  story  about  a 
pair  of  lovers,  but  only  to  record  the  fact  of 
Delorbe's  imprisonment  and  liberation,  the 
noble  traits  of  female  character  by  which  the 
latter  was  brought  about,  and  the  happy  se 
quel,  simply  says,  *  they  were  married?  Thus 
he  wafts  them,  by  a  feat  of  legerdemain,  as  on 
wings,  over  all  the  perils,  the  difficulties,  the 
escapes,  the  rocks,  hills,  and  ravines,  the  roses, 
brambles,  hedges  and  ditches,  which  we  may 
suppose  on  the  way,  by  a  short  airy  course, 
straight  to  Hymen's  altar.  Here  he  wisely 


202  THE    SISTER    THERESE. 

takes  leave  of  them,  prudently  forbearing  to 
follow  them  beyond  it  to  see  if  the  apostate 
nun  proved  more  faithful  to  her  latter,  than  her 
former  covenant ;  or  acted  upon  her  old  theory, 
touching  sins  of  heart  and  deed,  carrying  it 
out  into  practice  still  farther  —  maintaining, 
that  since  she  was  in  the  world,  and  the  ways 
of  temptation,  she  might  follow  the  multitude 
to  do  evil.  Yet,  from  the  moral  elements, 
whose  mutual  attraction  had  drawn  them  into 
this  holy  alliance,  we  judge  that  neither  Del- 
orbe  nor  Therese  ever  had  reason  to  wish  that 
her  vows  as  a  religieuse  had  been  better  kept ; 
or  that  his  death  in  the  hospital  had  been  a 
reality  instead  of  a  feint. 


BLANCHE   AND    ISABEL 

[FROM  THE  FRENCH.] 


WILLIAM,  a  French  nobleman,  and  a  de 
scendant  of  the  House  of  Tancrede,  had  just 
entered  his  sixteenth  year,  when  he  inherited 
the  kingdom  of  Sicily,  founded  by  his  ances 
tors. 

Henri  de  Souabe,  Emperor  of  Germany, 
and  uncle  to  the  new  king  by  marriage  with 
his  aunt,  coveting  the  possessions  of  his 
nephew,  declared  war  against  him ;  and,  hav 
ing  conquered  and  taken  him  prisoner,  he 
caused  him  to  perish  on  the  scaffold,  before  the 
eyes  of  his  people,  in  the  Great  Square  of 
Palermo. 

Already  rendered  odious  to  the  Sicilians  by 
this  barbarity,  Henri,  by  new  cruelties,  daily 
increased  their  hatred  for  him,  and  their  regrets 


204  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

for  the  milder  government,  which  the  French 
had  taught  them  to  cherish. 

After  the  execution  of  William,  the  Cheva 
lier  de  Toredo,  one  of  the  most  zealous  parti- 
zans  of  the  young  king,  seeking  a  balm  for  the 
wound  his  loss  had  occasioned,  from  the  calm 
of  private  life,  withdrew  to  a  rural  and  retired 
ground,  where,  with  his  young  and  only 
daughter,  he  lived  respected,  and  passed  his 
days  in  peace. 

In  the  person  of  Blanche,  for  this  was  the 
name  of  the  daughter,  external  beauty  and 
attractions  were  united  with  great  sprightliness 
of  mind,  depth  of  feeling,  and  an  uncommon 
share  of  magnanimity.  Her  father  had  not 
only  trained  her  up  in  the  love  of  virtue,  but 
had  inspired  her  young  heart  with  the  highest 
respect  and  the  warmest  attachment  for  the 
House  of  Trancrede,  and  the  strongest  aver 
sion  towards  Henri  and  the  Germans. 

Blanche  carried  out  these  opposite  senti 
ments,  even  to  fanatacism.  She  often  ques 
tioned  her  father  about  the  face,  the  form,  the 
whole  personal  appearance  and  character  of 
the  unfortunate  William ;  and  her  mind 
seemed  restless  till  she  obtained,  in  detail,  the 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  205 

account  of  the  fatal  combat  in  which  he  had 
yielded,  and  of  his  early  and  violent  death. 
When  listening  to  these  recitals,  she  would 
sometimes  groan  aloud,  to  think  that  she  could 
not,  with  the  price  of  her  own  blood,  restore 
him  to  life  and  the  throne,  and  she  was  moved 
to  tears. 

One  day,  when  the  Chevalier  had  been 
some  time  from  home,  he  returned,  bringing 
with  him  a  young  female  stranger,  whom  he 
introduced  to  his  daughter  by  the  name  of 
Isabel.  He  then  told  Blanche  that  this  young 
lady  was  to  remain  with  them ;  and  requested 
that  she  should  entertain  her  with  great  kind 
ness,  and  instruct  the  domestics  to  treat  her 
with  attention  and  respect. 

Isabel,  in  the  beauty  of  her  person  and  her 
whole -manner,  bore  so  strong  a  resemblance  to 
Blanche  as  to  attract  the  notice  of  every  eye. 
Their  likeness  was  such  that  they  might  easily 
have  passed  for  sisters.  But  Blanche  needed 
not  this  relationship  to  inspire  her  with  love  for 
her  new  friend.  From  their  first  meeting  she 
felt  a  lively  interest  spring  up  in  her  warm 
heart  towards  her ;  and  this  was  strengthened 
by.  her  often  surprising  Isabel  weeping,  and 


206  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

sighing  over  a  piece  of  writing,  which  she 
would  conceal,  and  wipe  away  her  tears,  when 
she  perceived  any  one  approaching. 

She  wished  to  discover  the  cause  of  this 
secret  sorrow ;  but,  as  Isabel  seemed  struggling 
to  hide  it  from  her  observation,  she  forbore  to 
question  her,  or  even  to  allude  to  the  grief  and 
disquietude  which  could  not  be  voluntarily 
confided  to  her.  Yet  in  this  discretion,  which 
she  had  imposed  on  herself,  she  only  found  a 
tormentor. 

'  Who/  she  would  sometimes  say  to  herself, 
£  who  is  this  mysterious  Isabel,  whom  I  have 
been  instructed  to  treat  with  so  much  respect 
and  attention,  without  seeking  or  wishing  to 
know  anything  of  her  destiny  ?  What  can  the 
writing  be,  that  she  weeps  over  so  much  ?  and 
what  mean  those  sighs  that  she  heaves  so 
freely,  as  soon  as  she  thinks  herself  alone,  and 
stifles  them  when  any  one  comes  near?' 

Thoughts  like  these  revolved  continually  in 
the  mind  of  Blanche.  Now  disturbed,  and 
now  wounded,  to  find  that  her  tenderest  solici 
tude,  and  all  the  warmth  of  her  attachment,  did 
not  win  for  her  the  confidence  of  friendship, 
she  would  sometimes  resolve  to  give  a  gentle 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  207 

reproach  to  Isabel.  But  then,  penetrated  by 
the  respect  due  to  misfortune,  she  would  sub 
due  her  feelings,  and  consider  that  the  most 
delicate  part  for  her  would  be  to  wait  with 
patience  for  the  avowal. 

But  this  confession  was  not  made.  The 
secret  was  still  withheld.  Blanche  now  deter 
mined  to  effect  her  object  by  adroitly  drawing 
Isabel  into  a  conversation  that  should  imper 
ceptibly  lead  on  to  a  confidence  which  her 
high  soul  would  not  solicit,  and  thus  to  come 
at  the  cause  of  her  friend's  disquietude  with 
out  alarming  her  sensibility. 

Already  a  few  words,  a  few  hints,  dropped 
by  Isabel,  and  caught  with  eagerness  by 
Blanche,  had  created  suspicions  in  her  mind, 
which  she  promised  herself  soon  to  prove  true. 
Tender  and  generous  as  she  was,  it  was  not  to 
satisfy  a  vain  curiosity  that  she  felt  this  burn 
ing  desire  to  learn  the  secret  of  Isabel.  She 
only  wished,  by  getting  nearer,  to  find  out 
what  part  of  her  heart  she  might  touch  and 
heal. 

Isabel,  on  her  side,  sensible  to  all  the  kind 
ness  of  Blanche,  and  fully  appreciating  her 
character,  felt  alike  embarrassed.  Her  torn 


208  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

bosom,  a  prey  to  sorrows  deep  and  sacred, 
could  not  but  feel  how  sweet  it  would  be  to 
have  some  beloved  and  gentle  hand  placed 
upon  its  wound.  She  knew  that  those  com 
munications,  wherein  the  slightest  complaint 
touches  a  chord  of  sympathy  and  draws  forth 
a  soothing  response,  would  soften  her  afflic 
tion,  and  relieve  her,  yet  she  dared  not  to 
break  silence. 

The  Chevalier  de  Toredo  had  so  often  re 
peated  his  cautions,  assuring  her  that  the  most 
innocent  word,  or  the  least  inadvertency  in  her 
action,  might  prove  fatal  to  her,  that,  even  in 
her  conversations  with  Blanche3  the  fear  of 
incurring  reproach  from  her  benefactor  re 
strained  her,  and  kept  back  the  secret  ever 
ready  to  escape, 

Frequently  did  she  wish  that  Blanche  would 
become  more  pressing,  so  as  to  furnish  her  an 
excuse,  in  her  own  eyes,  at  least,  for  some 
slight  indiscretion  that  might  lead  to  a  disclo 
sure.  Such  were  her  feelings,  when  Blanche, 
one  day,  proposed  to  her  a  walk  in  the  pleas 
ant  wood,  at  a  short  distance  from  their  dwell 
ing. 

The  two  friends,  now  equally  at  a  loss  how 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  209 

to  commence  and  order  their  conversation, 
kept  for  some  time  a  profound  silence.  At 
length  a  few  vague  remarks  eased  the  way  to 
greater  freedom,  and  gave  Blanche  an  opportu 
nity  to  summon  her  fortitude,  so  as  skilfully  to 
direct  the  discourse  to  the  fate  of  the  young 
William. 

Isabel  turned  pale  at  the  mention  of  his 
name ;  and  Blanche,  perceiving  it,  felt  convinced 
of  the  truth  she  had  already  suspected.  She 
pursued  the  subject ;  and,  entering  into  the  par 
ticulars  of  the  history  of  William,  painted  with 
fire  his  defeat,  his  captivity,  and  his  untimely 
death.  Isabel,  whose  trouble  had  been  aug 
menting  at  every  word,  unable  any  longer  to 
contain  it,  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of 
Blanche. 

1  To  whom,'  cried  she,  l  do  you  give  these 
horrid  pictures?  Even  to  the  sister  of  Wil 
liam  !~r-  to  the  last  branch  of  an  unfortunate 
family !  I  confide  to  you  a  secret  on  which 
my  life  depends ;  but  my  full  heart  feels  the 
need  of  pouring  itself  into  yours ! ' 

Blanche  fell  at  the  feet  of  Isabel,  calling  her 
her  sovereign,  and  vowing  to  her   unlimited 
devotion.     On  receiving  from  her  an  order  to 
14 


210  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

rise,  she  obeyed,  and  sought  to  be  informed  of 
the  events  that  had  saved  her  from  the  persecu 
tor  of  her  family.  Isabel  pressed  her  hand 
tenderly,  and  promised  to  satisfy  her.  The 
day  was  drawing  to  a  close ;  large  trees  over 
shadowed  them  with  their  branches ;  the  place 
and  the  hour  were  suited  to  a  sorrowful  recital ; 
and  Isabel,  seating  Blanche  beside  her,  thus 
began  her  narrative. 

i  I  had  hardly  gained  my  fifteenth  year, 
when  Henri  de  Souabe,  who  had  married  my 
mother's  sister,  came,  with  no  other  rights  than 
those  of  ambition,  to  attack  my  brother  Wil 
liam  on  the  throne  of  Sicily,  his  lawful  inher 
itance.  My  brother  was  overpowered,  taken, 
and  condemned  to  death. 

4  At  the  approach  of  the  German  army,  Wil 
liam  had  sent  my  mother  and  me  to  the  house 
of  my  maternal  grandfather,  the  Duke  of  Fer- 
rara,  for  safety.  When  we  learnt  his  danger, 
we  flew  to  Rome  to  plead  with  the  Pope  for  his 
intercession  in  William's  behalf.  But  the  per 
fidious  Pontiff,  far  from  being  touched  with 
our  affliction,  delivered  us  up  to  the  usurper ; 
and  we  were  thrown  into  a  dungeon. 

*  We  could  have  borne  this  rigor  without  a 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  211 

murmur,  would  the  loss  of  our  liberty  have 
saved  our  unhappy  William.  But,  hardly  were 
we  prisoners  by  order  of  Henri,  when  the  guards 
came  to  drag  us  to  the  place  of  his  execution, 
to  witness  the  horrid  spectacle !  Terrible  re 
finement  of  cruelty!  Judge  what  must  have 
passed  in  our  hearts,  when  we  saw  this  young 
Prince,  so  dear  to  us,  — •  this  heir  to  the  throne 
of  our  ancestors,  appear  on  an  infamous  scaf 
fold,  there  to  suffer  the  death  due  only  to  a 
criminal!  Think  what  must  have  been  his 
anguish,  when,  casting  his  eyes  round  for  the 
last  time  on  the  things  of  this  world,  he  beheld 
before  him  his  mother  and  his  sister,  who,  with 
dishevelled  hair,  cords  around  their  bowed 
necks,  and  their  hands  loaded  with  irons,  were 
brought  forth  to  serve  as  a  trophy  at  his  death! 
1  Our  streaming  eyes  met,  and  ceased  not  to 
confound  their  looks  till  his  head  was  dropped. 
At  the  fatal  blow,  we  too  fell,  deprived  of  con 
sciousness.  When  we  awoke  again  to  life,  it 
was  amid  the  gloomy  horrors  of  our  prison. 
On  opening  our  eyes,  the  first  sight  that  struck 
them  was  the  blood  of  our  beloved  William, 
with  which  we  were  covered !  Mingling  our 


212  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

tears  with  this  precious  blood,  we  fain  would 
have  gathered  it  into  our  own  hearts. 

'  We  expected  soon  to  follow  this  innocent 
victim ;  but  the  excess  of  our  sorrow  touched 
the  sympathy  of  the  keeper  of  the  tower  where 
we  were  confined,  and  he  proposed  to  us  to 
fly,  offering  to  do  all  in  his  power  to  aid  our 
escape.  "We  accepted;  and  he  furnished  us 
with  suitable  garments  for  a  disguise,  and 
some  pieces  of  gold  for  our  necessities.  As 
soon  as  night  had  fallen,  so  as  to  favor  our 
object,  assisted  by  our  kind  liberator  to  pass 
without  the  prison,  we  availed  ourselves  of  the 
shades,  and  led  under  the  protection  of  dark 
ness,  yet  trembling  at  every  step,  lest  the  emis 
saries  of  Henri  should  surprise  us,  while  we 
walked  as  fast  as  our  strength  would  permit, 
till  we  were  out  of  Palermo. 

'  Our  first  aim  was  to  gain  the  sea-side, 
where  we  might  throw  ourselves  into  some 
vessel  that  would  convey  us  to  the  coast  of  the 
Duchy  of  Ferrara.  But,  weariness  at  length 
compelling  us  to  stop  on  the  way,  we  pre 
sented  ourselves,  with  assumed  names  and  a 
feigned  story,  at  the  house  of  a  widow  lady. 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  213 

Signora  Maldini,  who  lived  in  the  country,  re 
tired,  and  on  a  small  annuity. 

'  Hardly  had  we  commenced  the  fable  we 
had  imagined,  when  this  benevolent  woman 
received  us  hospitably  within  her  dwelling, 
and  offered  every  attention  a  kind  heart  could 
suggest.  Believing,  however,  that  we  should 
be  safer  under  the  roof  of  a  relative,  we  were 
preparing  to  depart,  when  information  reached 
us  that  the  Duchy  of  Ferrara  had  been  inva 
ded,  and  was  now  in  the  possession  of  a 
neighboring  Prince. 

4  This  intelligence,  which  cut  off  all  our 
hopes  of  an  asylum  there,  was  too  much  for 
my  poor  mother.  Overwhelmed  with  afflic 
tion,  she  fell  suddenly  ill.  In  vain  was  every 
filial  care;  and  all  the  offices  of  friendship  be 
stowed  by  the  good  Signora  Maldini  proved 
alike  unavailing.  The  blow  was  given,  and 
she  expired  beneath  it !  Conceive  my  despair. 
I  had  seen  my  father  die  in  the  fulness  of  his 
strength,  my  brother  by  the  hand  of  a  licensed 
murderer!  I  had  just  learnt  the  misfortune  of 
my  excellent  relative.  And,  when  no  one  re 
mained  to  me  but  my  mother,  I  received  her 
last  sigh ! 


214  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

1  Crushed  by  the  weight  of  so  many  afflic 
tions,  I  fixed  a  sad  and  steadfast  gaze  on  the 
pale  clay  of  my  beloved  parent ;  but  I  could  not 
weep ;  even  the  relief  of  tears  was  denied  me ! 
They  tore  me  from  it  to  perform  the  last  mel 
ancholy  duties  paid  by  the  living  to  the  dead. 
A  grave  was  prepared  in  the  garden,  where 
Signora  Maldini  permitted  me  to  rear  an  hum 
ble  monument,  to  which  I  daily  bore  my 
tribute  of  affection  and  sorrow  — -  sorrow,  alas ! 
too  just. 

'Without  kindred  —  without  a  country — I 
knew  not  to  what  court  I  might  fly  for  refuge. 
In  Sicily  and  in  Germany  reigned  the  de 
stroyer  of  William.  At  Rome  was  seated  the 
Pontiff,  who  had  sold  us.  At  Ferrara  the 
enemy  of  my  family  held  command!  Pro 
scribed  by  so  many  powers,  from  what  Prince 
could  I  expect  a  welcome  ?  Besides,  how 
could  my  pained  soul  bear,  from  court  to  court, 
the  picture  of  my  wretchedness,  only  to  expose 
me  to  contempt,  or  the  treachery  of  their  sov 
ereigns  ? 

'  The  generous  Signora,  viewing  my  help 
lessness,  pressed  me  to  fix  myself  with  her;  and 
I  yielded  to  her  solicitations.  Her  situation 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  215 

and  expenses  had  nothing  of  show  about  them 
to  attract  attention.  Her  dwelling  was  remote 
from  Palermo.  I  there  passed  as  her  niece, 
and  excited  no  suspicion.  Then,  the  ashes  of 
my  mother  slumbered  there,  and  I  preferred  an 
asylum  where  I  could  feel  that  her  shade  was 
watching  over  my  fate.  Indeed,  I  lived  peace 
fully  in  this  retreat.  The  kindness  of  my 
amiable  benefactress,  my  rural  occupation,  the 
view  of  true  and  pure  pleasure,  all  conspired  to 
bring  seasons  of  sweet  calm  to  my  long  agita 
ted  soul. 

4 1  had  passed  three  years  in  this  quiet  home, 
when  my  benefactress  was  seized  with  a  fatal 
illness.  It  was  one  of  rapid  progress,  and  of 
which  my  redoubled  attentions  could  neither 
stay  the  power,  or  check  the  haste.  She  sent 
for  a  friend,  who  came,  and  united  his  efforts 
to  mine  to  save  her.  This  friend  was  your 
father! 

i  When  she  had  presented  him  to  me,  "  I 
feel,"  said  she,  "  my  end  drawing  near,  but  I 
have  thought  of  your  fate,  when  I  shall  be  no 
more.  I  now  give  you  into  the  hands  of  the 
most  virtuous  of  men.  He  is  warmly  attached 
to  your  family,  and  you  may  dwell  in  his 


216  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

house  without  fear."  To  these  melting  words 
the  gentleman  added  the  most  affecting  protes 
tations;  and  I  freely  confided  my  destiny  to 
him.  But  I  could  not  bid  adieu  to  my  beloved 
friend,  till  I  had  remained  to  close  her  eyes. 
She  breathed  her  last  sigh  in  my  bosom,  and  I 
saw  her  dear  remains  safely  laid  at  rest  in  the 
garden,  by  the  side  of  my  mother.  When  I 
had  taken  a  sorrowful  farewell  of  these  sacred 
graves,  I  followed  your  father. 

1  Such,  Blanche,  have  been  the  losses  I  have 
sustained,  and  it  belongs  only  to  a  friend  like 
you  to  solace  me  under  them.' 

Blanche  assured  her  that,  if  every  testimony 
of  a  pure  and  warm  attachment  could  give  a 
charm  to  intimacy,  she  should  find  it  in  hers. 
1  But,'  continued  she,  '  I  fear  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  dispel  your  sadness.  It  is,  indeed,  but 
too  just.  Called,  as  you  are  by  your  birth,  to 
the  highest  rank  and  honor,  you  must  feel  un 
happy  and  indignant,  to  be  dragging  out  your 
days  in  humble  obscurity,  while  a  usurper  is 
insolently  seated  on  the  throne  of  your  fathers.' 

i  You  mistake,  my  dear  Blanche,'  said  Isa 
bel,  interrupting  her;  'the  chimeras  of  ambition 
torment  me  not.  Born  in  courts,  I  have  seen 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  217 

power  and  sorrow  closely  allied,  and  by  a  near 
view;  and  I  never  turn  up  my  eyes  to  that 
power  which  has  escaped  me.  The  picture  I 
have  seen  of  it  should  have  satisfied  me  con 
cerning  the  possession  of  dominion,  which  is 
but  a  pompous  misfortune,  were  there  no  other 
reflection  to  give  it  additional  horrors.  But,  it 
has  cost  the  life  of  my  dear  "William !  And 
how  could  my  thoughts  pause  on  the  throne, 
that  is  stained  with  the  blood  of  a  brother  ?  It 
occasions  me  no  effort  to  conceal  my  claims. 
My  native  pride  and  the  dignity  of  my  birth 
first  inspired  me  with  the  design  of  living  in 
seclusion  and  unknown,  when  I  accepted  the 
invitation  of  my  departed  friend.  And  now,  I 
find  that  obscurity  agrees  best  with  my  charac 
ter.  It  has  procured  me  tranquillity  of  soul, 
and  real  friends, — -  treasures  too  precious  for 
me  to  run  the  risk  of  losing  them ! ' 

'  Every  word  you  utter,'  replied  Blanche, 
'  does  but  make  me  love  you  the  more.  Yet, 
why  dissemble  ?  Whether  it  be  ambition,  or 
some  other  sentiment  that  afflicts  you,  you  cer 
tainly  suffer!  I  have  surprised  you  in  tears, 
which  you  fain  would  have  concealed.  Does 
one  weep  when  the  soul  is  at  peace?  And 


218  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

then,  that  writing,  which  you  are  ever  read 
ing' 

Isabel  interrupted  her.  '  Cruel  Blanche ! ' 
said  she,  '  must  you  wring  from  me  my  soul's 
whole  secret?  Well,  I  will  resist  no  longer. 
Look  into  my  heart  and  read !  Few  are  the 
troubles  that  disturb  it.  LOVE  alone  fills  — 
consumes  it!'  She  drew  a  deep  sigh,  and, 
pausing  a  few  moments  to  gather  fortitude, 
thus  went  on : 

'  About  a  year  after  my  eyes  took  their  last 
look  at  the  face,  of  my  beloved  mother,  they 
heheld,  for  the  first  time,  the  mortal  who  was 
to  inspire  me  with  the  sweetest  and  most  cruel 
of  sentiments. 

4  It  was  one  of  those  bright  and  balmy  days, 
when  earth  is  clothed  anew  by  the  return  of 
the  joyous  spring.  I  had  been  out  among  the 
thatched  cabins  around  us  to  carry  some  little 
gifts  from  Signora  Maldini,  to  distribute  among 
the  poor  cottagers  ;  and,  having  performed  my 
errand,  felt  disposed  to  continue  my  ramble 
farther  among  the  fields. 

I  know  not  whether  it  was  because  nature  is 
more  pleasing,  when  we  have  done  a  good 
deed,  or  that  there  was  an  unusual  splendor 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  219 

and  richness  in  the  scene  around ;  but  I  yielded 
myself  up  to  the  admiration  of  its  beauty,  and, 
with  unwonted  tenderness  of  feeling,  strayed 
over  the  grounds. 

1  As  thus  musing  I  went  on,  I  was  turning 
the  corner  of  a  wood,  when — what  was  the 
sight  that  suddenly  met  my  view?  A  wounded 
hunter,  bleeding,  and  stretched  upon  the  grass 
before  me ! 

4 1  ran  to  him,  and,  rending  my  veil  in  two, 
took  one  part  to  stanch  the  blood,  and  with  the 
other  bound  up  the  wound.  When  his  con 
sciousness  had  gradually  returned,  I  helped 
him  ro  rise ;  and  perceived,  with  a  blush,  that 
he  was  in  the  flower  of  youth,  with  mildness 
and  beauty  beaming  over  all  his  features. 
When  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  lifted  them  to 
me,  I  seemed  to  see  celestial  azure  coming 
out  of  a  cloud.  His  look,  his  blood,  with 
which  the  turf  was  reeking;  his  paleness  from 
the  loss  of  it,  which  rendered  his  face  more 
touching ;  the  weakness,  which  added  pliancy 
and  grace  to  his  motions  —  all  conspired  to 
send  into  my  soul  an  uneasiness  to  which  I 
had,  till  that  moment,  been  a  stranger.  I  was 
about  to  depart;  but  his  words  and  voice  with 
held  me, 


220 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 


'  Why  would  you  fly  me  ? '  said  he,  '  Is  it 
right  to  hide  ourselves  from  the  hearts  we  have 
made  happy  ?  Stay !  What  are  you  ?  If 
we  were  in  the  days  of  the  Fables,  I  should 
believe  you  a  nymph  of  the  wood —  a  divinity 
come  down  from  above  to  the  relief  of  sinking 
humanity !  But,  be  you  goddess  or  mortal, 
nothing  can  be  sweeter  than  to  have  received 
your  care,  and  felt  those  tender  hands  closing 
my  wound !  Would  you  leave  your  work 
imperfect?  You  have  driven  death  from  me. 
Will  you  now  forsake  me ;  and  leave  me,  alone 
and  languishing,  in  a  place  to  which  he  may 
return  and  seize  me  ?  From  the  compassion, 
of  which  I  have  already  had  such  touching 
proofs,  I  dare  to  hope  that  you  will  yet  deign  to 
guide  my  steps  to  some  cottage,  where  I  may 
obtain  the  help  of  which  I  stand  so  much  in 
need.' 

4 1  answered  him,  with  a  trembling  voice, 
"  You  are  quite  too  feeble  to  support  yourself 
in  walking,  even  with  assistance.  Give  me 
but  a  few  moments ;  I  will  soon  be  back."  I 
did  not  wait  for  a  reply  ;  but,  hastening  away, 
was  gone  only  a  short  time,  when  I  returned 
with  an  escort,  bringing  with  him  a  litter  of 
reeds. 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  221 

'  PIERRE,  for  so  the  young  hunter  called  him 
self,  was  placed  on  the  bed,  and  conveyed  to 
the  house  of  Signora  Maldini,  who  came  out 
to  meet  him,  and  offered  him  an  asylum,  which 
he  gratefully  accepted.  An  apartment  was 
prepared  for  him,  furnished  with  every  comfort 
his  situation  might  require,  and  his  wound 
taken  care  of  with  the  peculiar  grace  which 
that  benevolent  woman  so  well  knew  how  to 
shed  over  all  her  deeds. 

'  She  went  every  morning  with  early  inqui 
ries  after  the  state  of  the  invalid's  health  ;  but  I 
never  accompanied  her.  I  had  discovered  that 
I  loved  Pierre ;  and  this  alone  forbade  me  to 
manifest  any  forwardness  or  solicitude  about 
his  welfare.  I  dared  not  to  see  him !  I  ques 
tioned  no  one  respecting  the  progress  of  his 
recovery,  though  I  often  detected  myself  on 
the  way  to  his  apartment ;  and  whenever  Sig 
nora  Maldini  spoke  of  him,  I  listened  with 
greedy  attention. 

1  This  lively  interest  alarmed  me.  I  reflected 
that  the  gratitude  of  Pierre  was  no  proof  that 
he  loved  me.  I  found,  too,  that  the  Signora 
never  spoke  of  his  having  mentioned  me,  or 
intimated  a  wish  to  see  me ;  nor  that  he  had 


222  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

shown  any  surprise  because  I  had  not  visited 
him.  I  also  considered  the  barrier  that  my 
birth  must  interpose  between  us,  even  if  I  pos 
sessed  his  affections  ;  as  by  this  I  was  forbid 
den  to  unite  myself  in  marriage  to  any  but  a 
prince. 

4  With  thoughts  like  these,  I  gathered  strength 
to  combat  my  inclinations,  and  might,  perhaps, 
have  gained  the  victory,  had  Pierre  never  again 
appeared  to  me. 

4  When  he  was  able  to  leave  his  room,  he 
came  below  and  joined  us  in  the  parlor.  I 
blushed,  and  then  turned  pale,  as  he  entered 
the  room.  He  drew  towards  me,  and  gave  a 
gentle  reproach  for  my  apparent  indifference  to 
his  sufferings.  I  knew  not  how  to  answer. 
Happily  he  relieved  my  embarrassment  by 
dropping  the  conversation.  His  eyes  alone 
spake  to  me ;  but  when  they  met  mine  they 
suddenly  fell,  and  seemed  only  to  turn  on  me 
again  by  involuntary  motion.  Day  after  day 
his  manner  was  the  same.  His  broken  con 
versation,  restrained  looks,  and  every  outward 
action,  bore  testimony  to  some  internal  uneasi 
ness,  some  secret  cause  of  disquietude. 

'  Uncertainty,  as  to  the  true  state  of  his  feel- 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  223 

ings  towards  me,  kept  my  thoughts  ever  rest 
less  and  inquisitive  to  find  out  the  cause  of  his 
restraint  in  my  presence.  Did  he  fear  that  he 
might  love?  Or  did  he  love  me,  and  fear 
to  confess  it  ?  These  questions  I  wished  to 
answer  to  myself,  and  I  determined  to  observe 
him  with  a  watchful  eye. 

( I  surprised  him,  one  day,  fondly  looking  at 
and  kissing  a  miniature  that  was  attached  to  a 
chain  passing  about  his  neck,  and  carried  in 
his  bosom.  I  had  no  doubt  that  this  was  the 
likeness  of  some  lady,  and  felt  convinced  at 
once  that  I  had  discovered  the  cause  of  his 
disquiet. 

*  Invoking  all  my  fortitude  and  pride  to  aid 
me,  I  resolved  to  think  no  more  of  the  man 
who  seemed  thus  devoted  to  another,  and  even 
promised  myself  that  I  would  never  seek  to 
ascertain  whose  picture  this  might  be.  Vain 
resolution !  My  passion,  lighted  up  by  its  first 
research,  had  flamed  to  its  height  without  my 
perceiving  it.  I  was  devoured  by  jealousy  and 
curiosity ;  and,  assured  that  I  possessed  not 
the  affections  of  Pierre,  found  myself  the  most 
wretched  of  women.  His  image  was  ever  be 
fore  me,  tenderly  regarding  and  kissing  the 


224  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

fatal  miniature.  If  be  stayed  out  of  my  pres 
ence,  I  thought  it  was  the  charm  of  this  idol 
that  detained  him.  If  he  retired,  it  was  to 
contemplate  it  with  freedom.  I  heeded  not  the 
tender  looks  he  addressed  to  me.  I  thought 
only  of  the  cruel  ornament  that  he  wore  upon 
his  heart ;  and  often,  when  conversing  with  him, 
I  felt  seized  with  a  sudden  desire  to  open  his 
vest  and  snatch  it  away,  that  I  might  break  it 
in  pieces.  But  accident  at  length  ended  my 
torments. 

'  I  was  taking  one  of  my  solitary  walks  in 
the  fields,  pensive,  and  deploring  my  unhappy 
fate,  in  being  thus  doomed  to  cherish  a  love 
without  return,  when  a  voice  from  the  grove 
near  me  suddenly  touched  my  ear.  I  listened ; 
it  was  Pierre !  He  was  singing,  and  I  dis 
tinctly  heard  these  words : 

"  Beloved  grove,  where  oft  I  came, 
To  tell  to  thee  my  secret  grief; 
And  here  to  speak  that  hallowed  name, 
Elizabeth,  to  every  leaf — 

"  I  then  believed  that  name  alone 

Upon  my  lips  would  ever  dwell  5 
But  I  another  love  must  own  — 
My  lips  must  utter  Isabel ! 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  225 

"  Dear  picture  of  thy  giver's  face, 

Which  I  so  long  adored  in  thee, 
Absolve  a  heart  that  bears  the  trace 
Of  other  features  dear  to  me ! 

"  When,  of  my  lost  Elizabeth, 

Her  people's  voice  proclaimed  aloud 
The  hapless  fate  —  the  cruel  death ! 
A  life  of  faith  to  thee  I  vowed. 

"  Elizabeth,  thy  bleeding  shade 
I  see,  as  if  it  late  had  wept : 
It  frowns  to  find  thy  lover  made 
That  vow  to  be  no  longer  kept. 

"  Yet,  to  have  held  that  promise  fast, 

The  eyes  whose  tears  in  torrents  fell, 
When  darkness  over  thine  was  cast, 
Should  ne'er  have  looked  on  Isabel. 

"  In  memory  thou  shalt  ever  live. 

I  '11  seek  thee  there  at  sorrow's  shrine ; 
But  hence,  to  Isabel  I  give 

The  love  that  once  was  only  thine ! " 

4  In  my  transport  at  hearing  these  words,  I 
darted  forward  into  the  grove,  to  ascertain  if  it 
was  indeed  Pierre  who  had  pronounced  them. 

'  He  perceived  me ;  and,  concealing  the  pic 
ture,  asked  in  a  tremulous  voice  if  I  had  heard 
15 


226  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

all  —  "  All !  "  I  replied.  "  Well  then,  Isabel," 
said  he,  "  what  is  to  be  my  fate  ?  I  adore  you  ! 
Can  I  hope  that  you  return  my  love  ?  " 

1  The  picture  that  I  knew  he  had  in  his 
bosom,  checked  my  confession.  Before  I  made 
it,  I  wished  to  learn  more  about  this  Elizabeth, 
who,  from  the  depth  of  the  tomb,  was  my 
rival ;  and  I  questioned  Pierre.  "  You  need 
not  fear  her,"  said  he,  "  since  death  has  borne 
her  from  me,  and  you  bear  so  strong  a  likeness 
to  her ;  it  is  ELIZABETH  DE  TANCREDE." 

'  At  this  name  my  senses  seemed  forsaking 
me.  But  recovering  myself,  "  Elizabeth  de 
Tancrede  !  "  said  I,  "  and  what  makes  her  so 
dear  to  you  ?  " 

'  "  I  was  to  have  been  her  husband,"  said  he. 
"  I  am  Pierre  of  Provence,  son  of  the  sovereign 
of  that  court." 

'  "  You  ?  "  said  I,  "  ah !  proceed."  He  obeyed ; 
and  without  suspicion  of  my  birth,  went  on  to 
tell  me,  that  he  had  asked  Elizabeth  in  mar 
riage  ;  and  that  the  court  of  Sicily,  according 
to  the  royal  custom,  had  sent  him  her  picture. 
In  this,  he  said,  he  had  become  so  deeply  en 
amored  of  the  princess,  that  he  was  waiting 
with  impatience  the  moment  that  should  unite 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  227 

him  to  her,  when  he  received  the  news  of  her 
death,  and  the  account  of  her  brother's  execu 
tion. 

1  "  Overwhelmed  with  affliction  at  this  intelli 
gence,"  continued  he,  "  I  left  my  father's  court, 
and  travelled  from  country  to  country,  in  the 
hope  of  escaping  from  my  love  and  my  sor 
row.  But  my  love  and  my  sorrow  were  every 
where  present ! 

'  "  In  one  of  my  voyages,  our  ship  was  stranded 
on  the  coast  of  Sicily,  and  I  was  hospitably 
received  into  the  castle  of  a  nobleman,  whose 
grounds  border  on  those  of  Signora  Maldini. 
He  was  fond  of  the  chase,  and  I  joined  him  in 
it.  Weary  of  existence,  I  courted  peril  by 
attacking  the  most  ferocious  animals.  In  such 
a  state  as  this,  I  strayed  away  from  the  other 
hunters  in  pursuit  of  a  wild  boar,  whose  tooth 
had  given  me  the  wound  from  which  I  was 
bleeding,  when  I  received  your  succor. 

'  "  How  was  I  bewildered,  when,  on  open 
ing  and  raising  my  eyes,  they  beheld  in  your 
face  the  features  of  Elizabeth!  From  that 
moment,  the  names  of  Isabel  and  Elizabeth 
have  been  confounded  in  my  mind,  and 
mingled  on  my  lips.  In  vain  did  my  kind 


228  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

friend  at  the  castle  invite  me  to  return  to  him ; 
and  watch  the  progress  of  my  recovery  till  he 
thought  I  might  be  removed.  I  knew  not  what 
might  be  your  sentiments  towards  me ;  but  a 
spell  I  could  not  break  bound  me  to  the  house 
where  I  could  be  near  you.  Still,  I  had  my 
scruples.  I  feared  that  in  loving  you,  I  was 
false  to  the  memory  of  Elizabeth ;  and  I  some 
times  fancied  her  shade  before  me,  frowning, 
and  reproaching  me  with  my  infidelity.  But 
you  have  triumphed  over  all  —  you  I  adore! 
Accept,  then,  the  homage  of  a  heart  which 
feels  that  you  alone  must  have  its  devotion ! " 

c  When  he  had  ceased  speaking,  he  looked 
to  my  eyes  for  an  answer.  I  could  not  let  him 
remain  in  error,  and  replied  : 

*  "In  me  behold  Isabel  no  longer!  I  am 
that  princess  whom  you  mourned  as  in  the 
tomb ;  and  who  congratulates  herself  that  she 
still  lives,  since  she  has  your  love  and  can 
repay  you ! " 

1 1  then  related  my  adventures.  He  listened, 
filled  with  astonishment,  joy,  and  love  ;  and  in 
the  intoxication  they  produced,  called  me  a 
thousand  times,  his  preserver,  his  companion, 
his  bride !  Touched  by  these  endearing  names, 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  229 

and  happy  at  finding  myself  so  near  to  him 
whom  my  family  had  chosen  for  my  husband, 
my  former  misfortunes  disappeared;  and  it 
seemed  as  if  that  moment  was  the  first  of  my 
existence.  My  soul  surrendered  itself  to  senti 
ments  of  the  purest  felicity. 

*  Recovered  from  the  transport  of  his   sur 
prise,  Pierre  proposed  that  I  should  accompany 
him  to  the  house  of  his  father,  where  he  would 
marry  me  in  presence  of  the  court,  and  then 
take  up  arms  to  place  me  on   the  throne  of 
Sicily. 

*  I   answered,  that  I  was   convinced  of  the 
sincerity  and  delicacy  of  his  sentiments;  still,  I 
could  not  follow  him,  not  being  his  wife ;  and 
having  too  much  reason  to  fear  that  his  father 
would  not  consent  to  his  union  with  a  princess, 
who  was  robbed  of  her  possessions,  and  could 
bring  him  no  other  dowry  than  a  war  to  sus 
tain  and  perils  to  encounter. 

*  He  gave  me  the  strongest  assurances  that  I 
should  be  received  by  his  family  with  all  the 
interest  due  to  my  misfortunes  and  my  birth. 
But,  as  I  objected  still,  he  offered  to  have  the 
marriage  rites  performed  in  the  nearest  church, 
in  the  presence  of  Signora  Maldini,  before  our 
departure. 


230  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL, 

I  Not  to  consent  to  this,  I  was  obliged  to 
summon  all  my  fortitude.     My  heart  rent  itself 
to  obey  the  dictate  of  honor.     After  manifest 
ing  to  my  generous  lover  how  deeply  I  was 
affected,  I  represented  to  him,  that  it  would  ill 
befit  a  high-minded  girl  to  enter  a  family  with 
out  being  sure  of  their  welcome.     "  I  under 
stand/'  said  he ;  "  you  doubt  my  father's  con 
sent  !     I  will  fly  to  him  for  it,  and  hasten  back 
to  bring  it !     Will  you  then  go  with  me  ?  " 

I 1  told  him  that,  as  soon  as  he  would  bring 
me  a  certainty,  I  would  joyfully  follow  him. 
Satisfied  with  this,  he  made  the  preparations 
for  his  departure. 

'  When  about  to  leave  me,  he  put  into  my 
hand  the  verses  that  had  drawn  forth  our  mu 
tual  confession,  and  led  me  to  the  grave  of  my 
mother.  There  he  solemnly  lifted  up  his  voice, 
calling  on  her  shade  to  witness  the  immortal 
love  he  bore  me,  and  made  a  vow,  that  he 
would  come  and  console  her,  by  making  me 
his  wife,  and  placing  me  on  the  throne  of  her 
fathers. 

'  I  needed  not  these  protestations  to  convince 
me  of  his  sincerity,  nor  to  make  me  depend 
on  the  fulfilment  of  his  promises.  It  seemed 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  231 

Impossible  that  he  could  deceive  me.  This 
persuasion  kept  up  my  courage  during  the  first 
part  of  his  absence,  and  even  gave  to  it  a  kind 
of  mysterious  charm.  I  loved  to  visit  the 
room  he  had  occupied,  the  walks  he  had  pre 
ferred,  and  the  grove  where  he  had  received 
my  confession. 

'  To  each  of  these  dear  confidents  of  his  ten 
derness  I  promised  his  return.  Alas !  I  de 
ceived  them  —  I  deceived  myself !  Since  the 
fatal  moment  of  our  separation  I  have  had  no 
word  from  him,  no  information  of  him ! 

'  What  am  I  to  think  of  this  silence  ?  My 
troubled  soul  is  open  to  every  cruel  idea. 
Sometimes  I  paint  him,  on  the  seas,  pursued 
by  the  tempest,  struggling  with  the  waves, 
stricken  by  the  thunderbolt  and  swallowed  by 
the  waters ! 

'  Then,  I  fancy  him  at  his  father's  court,  sur 
rounded  with  splendor,  receiving  homage,  im 
mersed  in  pleasure,  giving  himself  up  to  other 
love,  and  forgetting  the  sad  Elizabeth  !  I  know 
not  at  which  of  these  thoughts  to  stop  ;  and  all 
are  alike  tormenting.  Whether  Pierre  is  dead, 
or  has  betrayed  me,  I  have  my  whole  life  to 
weep  for  him  — •  my  whole  life  to  suffer  1  Not 


232  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

that  I  regret  the  throne,  on  which  he  would 
have  placed  me,  or  the  grandeur  he  would 
have  restored  to  me.  It  is  his  hand  — —  his  love, 
of  which  I  cannot  bear  the  loss !  I  call  him 
incessantly  —  I  seek  him  every  where ;  but  I 
find  him  only  in  my  heart ! ' 

When  Elizabeth  had  ceased  speaking,Blanche 
endeavored  to  console  her,  by  assuring  her  that, 
by  the  impression  her  narrative  had  given  her 
of  the  character  of  Pierre,  she  could  not  be 
lieve  him  to  be  false ;  and  though  he  kept  si 
lence,  that  must  be  owing  to  some  cause  which 
rendered  it  impossible  for  him  to  do  otherwise. 

She  advised  her  to  arm  herself  with  forti 
tude,  to  expect  every  thing  from  time,  and  to 
use  the  sweets  of  friendship  as  a  balm  for  the 
pains  of  love. 

The  young  friends,  thus  earned  away  by  the 
charm  of  a  first  out-pouring  of  confidence,  had 
let  the  hours  fly  over  them  unnoticed ;  and  it 
was  now  late,  and  time  for  them  to  return  to 
their  dwelling.  As  they  rose  to  depart,  they 
expressed  their  satisfaction  at  the  new  tie  they 
had  just  formed,  and  mutually  promised  to 
fulfil  every  duty  it  should  impose,  even  to  the 
last  moment  of  life. 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  233 

An  opportunity  to  put  the  strength  of  these 
promises  of  friendship  to  the  test  was  not  slow 
to  offer  itself. 

Henri,  seated  on  the  throne  of  Sicily,  of 
which  he  had  robbed  the  lawful  heir,  reigned, 
a  prey  to  all  the  fears  that  ever  haunt  the  mind 
of  an  usurper.  He  knew  that  the  Sicilians 
murmured  against  his  government,  and  re 
gretted  the  House  of  Tancrede.  It  was  in 
vain  that  he  caused  all  who  manifested  their 
hatred  to  him  to  be  arrested  and  punished.  His 
rigorous  treatment  only  irritated  the  people  and 
caused  new  conspiracies. 

Just  at  this  moment,  the  emissaries  he  had 
secretly  scattered  abroad,  to  watch  for  every 
thing  that  might  concern  the  safety  of  his 
power,  brought  him  information  that  the  sister 
of  William  was  living,  concealed  in  the  house 
of  the  Chevalier  de  Toredb.  They  affirmed 
that  they  had  every  assurance  of  this,  and  even 
a  personal  description  of  her. 

The  escape  of  Elizabeth  had  rendered  him 
suspicious  and  uneasy ;  and,  to  remove  all 
hope  from  those  of  his  subjects  who  might 
think  of  opposing  to  him,  a  branch  of  the  royal 


234  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

family,  he  had  caused  a  rumor  of  her  death  to 
be  spread  throughout  the  kingdom. 

The  contradiction  of  this  report  was  indiffer 
ent  to  him;  but  his  safety  required  that  he 
should  have  the  person  of  the  princess  in  his 
own  keeping,  as  a  protection  against  the  hos 
tile  dispositions  of  the  Sicilians.  He  therefore 
despatched  a  company  of  soldiers  to  the  house 
of  de  Toredo,  with  an  order  to  arrest  Elizabeth, 
and  a  personal  description  of  her  was  given 
them. 

Before  they  reached  his  dwelling,  the  Cheva 
lier  was  warned  of  their  approach,  but  not  in 
time  to  send  Elizabeth  away  from  the  castle, 
which  the  soldiers  soon  surrounded ;  and  he 
had  only  a  moment  to  hurry  her  into  a  vault, 
the  passage  to  which  was  not  easy  to  be  dis 
covered. 

Hardly  had  he  left  her  there,  when  the  guards 
appeared,  and,  in  the  name  of  Henri,  sum 
moned  him  to  render  into  their  hands,  Eliza 
beth  de  Tancrede!  Blanche  being  present, 
they  took  her  for  the  princess,  and  arrested 
her.  The  Chevalier  told  them  she  was  his 
daughter;  but  they,  not  believing  him,  and 
thinking  he  only  used  this  as  a  subterfuge, 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  235 

threatened  to  fire  the  castle,  if  he  did  not  own 
the  truth.  At  this  menace,  both  father  and 
daughter  trembled  for  the  fate  of  Elizabeth. 
As  the  only  means  of  saving  her,  the  generous 
Blanche,  remembering  her  promise,  and  ready 
to  sacrifice  herself  for  her  friend,  availed  her 
self  of  the  belief  of  the  soldiers. 

1  I  must  no  longer  try  to  deceive  you ! '  said 
she,  '  I  am  indeed  Elizabeth ;  my  fate  is  in 
your  hands!'  The  Chevalier,  sincerely  at 
tached  to  the  House  of  Tancrede,  did  not  con 
tradict  her. 

The  soldiers,  satisfied  that  they  had  the  prin 
cess  now  in  possession,  conducted  Blanche 
and  the  Chevalier  to  Palermo,  where  they  were 
thrown  into  the  same  prison  that  had  been 
occupied  by  William. 

Elizabeth's  sorrow  was  Overwhelming  and 
almost  insupportable,  when  she  learnt  that  her 
friends  had  been  borne  away  and  cast  into 
prison  on  her  account;  and  she  bitterly  re 
pented  having  accepted  the  hospitality  that  had 
thus  exposed  her  benefactors.  As  she  knew 
nothing  of  the  generous  falsehood  practised  by 
Blanche,  she  supposed  the  arrest  to  be  solely 
on  account  of  their  having  given  her  an  asy- 


236  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

lum ;  and  her  mind  was  perplexed  to  know  in 
what  manner  she  might  best  serve  them. 

Her  first  impulse  was,  to  go  and  deliver  her 
self  up  to  Henri,  that  she  might,  by  her  own 
death,  procure  their  liberty.  But  then,  she  was 
not  sure  that  by  doing  this,  she  should  gain 
her  object,  and  that  her  taking  such  a  step 
would  not  hasten  their  destruction ;  as,  now,  she 
thought  them  only  to  be  detained  on  suspicion 
of  having  secreted  her,  and  her  avowal  would 
end  all  uncertainty  in  a  hasty  execution. 

In  this  embarrassment  and  indecision,  she 
resolved  on  going  to  Palermo,  and  there  to 
learn,  from  the  passing  rumors,  what  way 
would  be  the  wisest  for  her  to  take,  to  render 
herself  serviceable  to  her  friends,  without  ex 
posing  them.  She  accordingly  took  one  ser 
vant  from  the  castle,  to  accompany  her,  and  set 
out  for  Palermo. 

Hardly  had  she  reached  there,  when  she 
heard  that  the  sister  of  William  was  then  in 
irons,  and  on  the  point  of  being  condemned! 
At  this  information,  the  whole  truth  burst  at 
once  into  her  mind ! 

She  flew  to  the  palace  of  Henri,  and,  in 
order  to  obtain  a  quick  admittance  to  his  pres- 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  237 

ence,  said  to  all  who  would  have  retarded  her, 
that  she  had  something  of  importance,  and  in 
timately  connected  with  his  power  to  say  to 
him.  She  stood  before  him. 

4  Henri,'  said  she,  '  you  have  been  deceived ! 
you  think  you  have  in  your  hands  Elizabeth 
de  Tancrede !  But  you  have  only  the  daugh 
ter  of  the  Chevalier  de  Toredo,  who,  wishing 
to  serve  her,  has  given  herself  up,  by  taking 
her  name,  to  die  in  her  stead.  You  see  in  me, 
alone,  the  last  branch  of  that  illustrious  house ! 
If  the  throne,  of  which  you  have  robbed  me, 
had  been  all  in  question  between  me  and 
Blanche,  I  would  gladly  have  resigned  it  to 
her.  But  it  is  the  scaffold  to  which  I  come  to 
assert  my  right !  Restore,  then,  liberty  to  your 
magnanimous  captive,  and  strike  down  your 
enemy!  I  await  her  release,  and  my  own 
death!' 

Henri  was  thunderstruck.  He  could  con 
ceive  how  one  might  contend  for  power,  but 
not  for  a  right  to  die  on  the  scaffold.  Lost  in 
astonishment,  he  felt  wholly  unable  to  decide 
whether  it  was  Blanche  or  Elizabeth  who  had 
committed  the  imposture.  Yet,  fearing  some 
snare,  he  ordered  his  fair  prisoner  to  be  brought 


238  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

before  him.  Ills  people  hastened  to  obey  him. 
But  what  was  their  surprise,  when,  on  entering 
the  Tower,  where  Blanche  and  her  father  had 
been  confined,  they  discovered  that  both  had 
disappeared ! 

In  a  transport  of  rage  at  this  intelligence, 
Henri  ordered  that  Elizabeth  should  be  kept 
under  the  strictest  guard,  and  sent  out  soldiers, 
in  every  direction,  to  arrest  the  fugitives.  But 
their  search  was  vain.  The  Chevalier  and  his 
daughter  were  already  at  Messina  with  Sode- 
rini,  their  liberator ! 

This  Sicilian  lord,  an  inveterate  enemy  of 
the  Germans,  had  long  meditated  their  expul 
sion.  In  order  to  effect  this,  he  had  combined 
with  many  of  the  citizens  of  Messina,  whose 
birth,  wealth,  or  talents,  promised  to  favor 
the  enterprise.  The  hatred  they  entertained 
towards  the  Germans,  had  insured  him  a  nu 
merous  party. 

A  skilful  conspirator,  in  order  to  elude  all 
suspicion,  he  went  to  Palermo,  and  presented 
himself  at  the  court.  Pleasing  and ,  attractive 
in  person  and  manners,  he  had,  by  his  seduc 
tive  qualities,  ingratiated  himself  with  the  sov 
ereign,  and  secured  his  favor,  at  the  moment 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  239 

when  Blanche  was  brought  to  Palermo,  under 
the  name  of  Elizabeth  de  Tancrede. 

Feeling  how  much  this  name  would  aid  him 
in  the  accomplishment  of  his  purpose,  he  won 
his  way  to  her  by  bribery ;  and,  confiding  to  her 
his  whole  plot,  proposed  her  escape  with  him. 

To  this  Blanche  listened,  and  consented, 
without  informing  Soderini  of  the  mistake  he 
was  under ;  and  he  managed  the  flight  so  as  to 
avoid  detection,  till  they  were  safe  in  Messina. 

The  conspirators,  at  the  sight  of  her  whom 
they  believed  to  be  Elizabeth  de  Tancrede,  felt 
that  it  was  now  the  moment  for  them  to  break 
out  into  an  open  revolt.  They  proclaimed 
their  intention  aloud  to  the  people,  and  distrib 
uted  arms  among  them;  and  the  soldiers  of 
Henri  arrived,  only  in  time  to  witness  a  general 
insurrection. 

Every  one  knows  how  rapidly  a  flame, 
thrown  into  a  building,  will  spread  to  all  the 
apartments,  and  reduce  the  whole  edifice  to  a 
mass  of  ruins  and  ashes ;  —  so  quick  was  the 
spirit  of  the  leaders  in  the  rebellion,  to  pass 
into  the  bosoms  of  the  inhabitants  of  Messina. 
They  rushed  with  fury  on  the  citadel,  which 
treason  delivered  up  to  them,  and  massacred 


240  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

the  garrison.  The  other  Germans  were  slain 
wherever  they  could  be  found,  —  in  the  streets, 
in  their  houses,  and  in  the  temples.  They 
were  even  pursued  to  the  arms  of  the  Sicilian 
women  they  had  married!  Their  children 
were  not  spared.  The  babe  was  sacrificed  in 
the  cradle,  or  torn  from  its  mother's  breast  to 
perish. 

Amid  this  scene  of  carnage,  the  name  of 
Elizabeth  flew  every  way.  With  the  trium 
phant  shouts  of  those  who  had  armed  them 
selves  with  fervor  to  defend  her,  she  was  pro 
claimed  Queen  of  Sicily ! 

Even  Blanche  herself  put  on  armor,  and 
wished  to  confront  danger,  to  give  an  example 
of  courage  to  the  people  so  ready  to  die  for 
her.  In  these  important  movements,  she  had 
not  forgotten  Pierre,  of  whom  Elizabeth  had 
so  often  spoken.  The  court  of  Provence  was 
held  at  Aix ;  and  thither  she  despatched  a  se 
cret  envoy  to  instruct  the  Prince  of  all  that 
had  happened,  and  to  engage  him  to  take  arms 
and  come  forth  in  defence  of  his  Elizabeth. 

But  Henri  left  her  no  time  for  the  return  of 
this  messenger.  As  soon  as  he  heard  of  the 
revolt  at  Messina,  he  advanced  with  rapid  steps 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  241 

and  attended  by  a  formidable  army;  sending 
before  him  a  manifesto,  in  which  he  repre 
sented  the  new  queen  as  not  being  Elizabeth 
de  Tancrede ;  and  declaring  that  this  princess 
was  still  in  his  custody  at  Palermo.  The  peo 
ple  of  Messina  were  only  the  more  exasper 
ated  by  this,  which  they  received  as  another 
artifice  and  a  new  insult.  Soderini,  their  gen 
eral,  feeling  that  he  must  profit  by  the  fury  of 
this  excitement,  led  out  his  followers  to  meet 
Henri. 

The  rencontre  took  place  at  some  miles  from 
Messina.  The  two  armies  fell  upon  each 
other  with  desperate  force,  and  victory  seemed, 
for  some  time,  floating  between  them. 

Blanche,  who  fought  as  a  heroine  by  the 
side  of  her  father,  wished  to  decide  it  by  a 
great  exploit.  In  the  enemy's  ranks  she  dis 
covered  the  son  of  Henri,  and,  urging  on  her 
courser,  advanced  towards  him  with  her  drawn 
sword.  The  prince  let  her  approach,  and  aimed 
at  her  a  forcible  blow,  which  she  parried,  and 
returned  one  with  such  adroitness  that  he  fell 
bleeding  from  his  horse,  and  expired. 

This  terrified  the  soldiers  of  Henri,  and  in 
spired  those  of  Blanche  with  new  courage  to 
16 


542  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

fight.  They  fell  upon  the  Germans  with  such 
fury  that  they  gave  ground  and  dispersed.  In 
vain  did  Henri  endeavor  to  rally  them  to  renew 
the  combat.  He  was  himself  drawn  in  after 
them,  in  their  flight ;  and  he  hastened  back, 
with  the  wreck  of  his  army,  to  hide  his  shame 
in  Palermo! 

It  will  easily  be  conceived,  that,  by  this  vic 
tory,  Blanche  was  rendered  dearer  than  ever  to 
her  soldiers.  Young,  beautiful,  and  heroic,  she 
became  the  idol  of  her  army. 

Meantime  the  messenger,  whom  she  had 
despatched  to  Pierre,  returned  with  his  answer. 
The  Prince,  never  forgetful  of  Elizabeth,  thus 
explained  his  silence. 

A  shipwreck  had  thrown  him  on  the  coast 
of  Africa,  where  he  had  been  taken  and  held 
in  slavery,  without  the  means  of  writing  or  of 
sending  any  word  to  his  friends  respecting  his 
miserable  state  of  bondage,  of  which  he  prom 
ised  to  give  Elizabeth  the  particulars  when 
they  should  meet. 

He  said  he  had  just  returned  to  his  father's 
dominions,  through  many  perils  and  with  great 
sufferings  ;  and  that  he  was  now  happy  to  arm 
himself,  and  come  forth  in  defence  of  her 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  243 

whose  name  he  had  often  caused  the  echo 
of  the  desert  to  repeat,  that  he  might  hear  it, 
He  finished  with  these  words :  c  My  dear  Eliza 
beth,  my  father  consents  to  our  union,  and  ap 
proves  my  enterprise.  Already  he  has  given 
orders  for  vessels  to  be  filled  with  soldiers ;  and 
as  soon  as  my  forces  are  ready,  I  cross  the 
sea,  and  descend  to  Messina,  where  I  hope  to 
avenge  you,  or  to  die  ! ' 

On  reading  this,  Blanche  sent  back  a  vessel, 
with  a  message  to  Pierre,  requesting  him  to 
direct  his  fleet  to  Palermo,  where  she  awaited 
him.  Indeed,  she  had  taken  advantage  of  the 
first  moment  of  terror  in  the  enemy's  army  to 
possess  herself  of  several  important  places, 
meeting  with  little  opposition  and  great  accla 
mations  ;  and,  following  on  after  the  discom 
fited  foe,  she  had  subjugated  all  the  towns  on 
her  way,  and  thus  reached  Palermo. 

Henri,  who  had  there  been  preparing  to 
avenge  his  defeat,  now,  with  deep  regret,  found 
himself  constrained  to  think  only  of  defence. 

Blanche,  informed  that  Pierre  had,  according 
to  her  request,  just  appeared  before  Palermo 
and  blocked  up  the  port,  gave  orders  for  the 
attack.  The  city,  pressed  on  from  the  land 


244  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

and  the  sea,  could  make  but  a  short  resist 
ance. 

Henri,  finding  himself  abandoned  by  his 
party,  escaped  with  a  small  escort ;  while 
Blanche,  after  having  stopped  the  carnage  and 
proclaimed  mercy,  entered  into  the  midst  of  a 
people  intoxicated  with  joy,  at  finding  them 
selves  freed  from  the  German  yoke,  and  at 
liberty  to  obey  the  laws  of  a  House  which  they 
had  so  much  regretted. 

Pierre,  meantime,  having  forced  the  port, 
leaped  forth  to  the  shore,  elated  with  joy,  pride, 
and  love;  and  sought  first  to  find  the  object  for 
whom  he  had  conquered.  Being  told  that  she 
was  in  the  palace,  he  flew  thither,  and  was 
introduced  into  the  hall  where  Blanche  awaited 
him  alone.  He  saw  her,  and,  deceived  by  her 
likeness  to  Elizabeth,  fell  at  her  feet.  But  who 
can  long  remain  in  ignorance  respecting  the 
beloved  one  ? 

He  looked  with  earnestness  —  could  not 
recognize  Elizabeth !  —  and  sought  his  love  in 
the  object  who  bore  her  name  !  He  knew  not 
what  to  think.  Had  Elizabeth  deceived  him, 
in  calling  herself  the  sister  of  William  ?  or. 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  245 

was  the  woman  before  him  trying  to  deceive 
him  by  calling  herself  Elizabeth  ? 

Blanche  perceived  his  inquietude,  and  wish 
ed  not  to  prolong  it.  *  Pierre,'  said  she,  '  your 
heart  does  not  deceive  you.  I  am  not  your 
Elizabeth,  though  nature  has  adorned  me  with 
her  features !  You  deserve,  by  your  constancy 
and  valor,  to  find  her  faithful.  Henri  has  held 
her  bound  in  irons  ;  but  they  are  now  broken, 
and  you  shall  again  see  her!' 

1  Elizabeth ! '  exclaimed  Pierre,  *  ah  !  let  her 
appear !  If  her  love  is  reserved  for  me,  it  is  a 
dowry  worth  all  the  diadems  in  the  universe.' 

1  Love  and  a  diadem ! '  replied  Blanche. 
'  She  brings  you  both  in  this  moment.  She  is 
Queen  of  Sicily!  I  have  conquered  under 
her  name  but  to  restore  to  her,  her  name  and 
her  inheritance.  To-morrow  I  will  assemble 
my  nobles,  and  in  their  presence  reveal  a  se 
cret  which  is  now  known  only  to  my  father 
and  to  you.' 

Surprise,  admiration,  and  the  most  melting 
emotions  at  once  took  possession  of  the  soul 
of  Pierre.  He  had  no  words  that  could  ex 
press  to  Blanche  the  sentiments  with  which  he 
was  penetrated.  He  was  lost  in  silence,  which 


246  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

he  first  broke  by  a  cry  of  anguish,  at  the  return 
of  the  officer  whom  Blanche  had  sent  to  lead 
Elizabeth  to  her,  on  seeing  him  come  without 
her,  and  learning  that  she  was  no  longer  in 
Palermo ! 

1  When  I  entered  the  prison,'  said  the  officer, 
'  the  keeper  informed  me  that  the  king  had  sent 
the  fair  captive  away  from  the  city  some  days 
ago ;  and  perhaps  the  monster  has  now  sacri 
ficed  her  to  his  hatred.' 

At  this  intelligence,  Pierre  and  Blanche  were 
overwhelmed.  Love  and  friendship  groaned 
equally  in  those  two  feeling  souls.  Blanche 
caused  the  German  prisoners  to  be  questioned 
respecting  the  fate  of  Elizabeth.  One  of  them 
answered,  that  Henri  had  removed  her  to  a 
neighboring  castle,  which  was  protected  by  a 
strong  garrison. 

4  Soldier,'  cried  Pierre,  '  guide  me  to  that  fort 
this  moment !  My  own  men  of  Provence  are 
sufficient  to  render  me  master  of  it  at  once ; 
and  who  but  the  lover  of  Elizabeth  should  be 
her  deliverer  ? ' 

Blanche,  not  wishing  to  deprive  the  prince 
of  the  happiness  of  saving  Elizabeth,  contented 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  247 

herself  with  supporting  the  Provengals,  by  fol 
lowing  them  with  a  corps  of  Sicilians. 

Pierre  hastened  the  march,  and  in  a  few 
hours  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  castle.  He 
caused  a  ladder  to  be  erected  suddenly  against 
the  wall,  and,  with  an  axe  in  his  hand,  was 
himself  the  first  to  ascend.  A  paper  was 
thrown  to  him  from  the  rampart,  by  which  the 
governor  informed  him  that  Elizabeth  was 
about  to  perish,  and  if  he  did  not  desist  and 
retire,  the  sword,  that  was  now  already  raised 
over  her,  should  fall  at  once. 

This  menace  only  redoubled  the  ardor  of 
Pierre.  He  approached  the  draw-bridge,  and 
with  blows  from  his  axe,  struck  off  one  of  the 
chains  which  held  it,  and  let  it  drop.  Then 
darting  forth,  followed  by  his  men,  he  rushed 
into  the  interior  of  the  fort.  Here  he  beheld 
a  scaffold  erected,  and  Elizabeth  holding  her 
head  under  the  murderous  sword !  He  sprang 
forward,  disarmed  the  monster  who  held  it, 
and,  with  a  bleeding  arm,  bore  off  the  fainting 
Elizabeth. 

What  was  the  surprise  of  the  princess,  when, 
on  returning  to  life,  she  saw  herself  in  the 
arms  of  that  lover  whom  she  had  so  long 


248  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

mourned  as  faithless  or  dead!  It  was  not 
till  she  had  recovered  from  a  second  swoon, 
that  she  could  believe  all  was  not  an  illusion. 
When  she  realized  that  this  was  indeed  the 
voice,  the  face,  the  hand  of  him  who  had  long 
been  lost,  she  yielded  herself  to  the  joy  of  so 
sweet  a  conviction;  and  tasted  the  happiness 
of  having  found  once  more  the  prince,  whom 
she  adored,  and  of  owing  her  life  to  him,  as 
well  as  that  of  learning  that  he  had  never 
ceased  to  love  her. 

But,  in  relating  what  had  past,  Pierre  re 
served  one  surprise  for  her.  In  giving  the  ac 
count  of  Blanche's  success,  he  had  not  spoken 
of  her  generous  intention ;  and  Elizabeth,  alto 
gether  occupied  with  the  love,  the  protestations, 
and  the  constancy  of  the  prince,  directed  not 
her  thoughts  to  the  throne,  which  had  been 
taken  for  her,  till  she  had  reached  Palermo. 

Pierre  then  led  her  into  the  public  square, 
where  she  beheld  Blanche,  surrounded  with 
the  nobles,  the  army,  and  the  citizens.  On 
seeing  Elizabeth,  Blanche  advanced  towards 
her,  and,  taking  the  diadem  from  her  own 
head,  cried  aloud :  '  People,  soldiers,  behold 
your  sovereign!  I  am  but  the  daughter  of 


BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL.  249 

de  Toredo  !  I  am  her  subject !  I  have  dared 
to  assume  her  name  to  save  her  from  death ; 
but  I  restore  it  from  the  moment  when  the 
scaffold  became  to  her  a  throne.  Elizabeth  de 
Tancrede,  ascend  the  throne  of  your  fathers ; 
and,  for  your  first  homage,  receive  the  submis 
sion  of  Blanche ! ' 

The  assembly  broke  forth  into  loud  acclama 
tions  ;  while  Elizabeth,  melted  by  the  affecting 
scene,  refused  to  accept ;  and  the  Chevalier  de 
Toredo  and  the  nobles  bore  her  to  the  throne. 
Before  she  seated  herself  on  it,  she  called  her 
deliverer  to  her  arms  and  tenderly  embraced 
her.  This  sight  filled  all  hearts  with  emotion, 
and  every  eye  with  tears. 

Elizabeth's  first  care  was  to  unite  Blanche  to 
Soderini,  whom  she  raised  to  the  rank  of  prime 
minister ;  to  confer  high  honors  and  an  office 
of  dignity  on  the  Chevalier  de  Toredo  ;  and  to 
distribute  benefits  among  all  those  who  had 
fought  for  her. 

When  she  had  satisfied  her  feelings  of  grati 
tude,  she  thought  of  her  own  happiness,  and 
received  Pierre  as  her  husband.  Their  nup 
tials,  attended  with  great  pomp  and  splendor^ 
took  place  at  Palermo. 


250  BLANCHE    AND    ISABEL. 

When  happy  Elizabeth  forgot  not  her  faith 
ful  Blanche.  She  made  her  her  counsellor ; 
and  consulted  her  on  the  complaints  of  the  un 
fortunate,  and  all  desires  of  her  people. 

The  court  of  Elizabeth  was  the  only  one 
where  LOVE,  FRIENDSHIP,  and  JUSTICE  together 
met  and  reigned, 


LANCASTER. 


THE  early  history  of  the  town  of  Lancaster,. 
Mass.,  is  a  study  of  intense  interest.  The  natu 
ral  scenery  of  the  place  and  its  environs  pos 
sesses  great  and  peculiar  beauty. 

One  striking  feature  of  this  is  formed  by  the 
river  Nashaway,  and  the  junction  of  its  two 
main  branches.  One  of  these  has  its  source 
in  a  pond  in  Westminster ;  the  other  springs 
from  the  foot  of  the  Wachusett,  in  Princeton, 
The  first,  entering  Lancaster  on  its  north-west 
side,  pursues  a  southerly  course  towards  its 
centre ;  while  the  other  enters  it  at  the  south 
west  angle,  and  runs  in  an  easterly  direction, 
till  they  meet  in  the  very  heart  of  the  town, 
and  thence  flow  on  together  in  one  noble 
stream. 

Had  the  divine  poet,  who  tells  us  how  some- 


252  LANCASTER. 

times  l  they  meet,  and  mingle  souls,'  stood  be 
side  this  bright,  soft-flowing  river,  he  might 
have  used  it  happily  in  the  poem,  as  a  figure 
of  contrast  to  the  destructive  influences  of  the 
young  vulpine  incendiaries  employed  by  Sam 
son,  which  figure  so  brilliantly  in  his  verses  on 
a  highly  important  subject. 

From  the  year  1680  to  1692,  Lancaster  con 
tinued  in  the  peaceful  enjoyment  of  her  pos 
sessions  ;  and  the  settlement  went  on  increasing 
with  uninterrupted  quiet.  But  again  was  she 
afflicted,  and  brought  into  a  valley  of  blood 
and  fire. 

The  abdication  of  the  despotic  bigot,  James 
the  Second,  of  England,  in  1688,  and  the  licen 
tious  and  superstitious  Louis  the  Fourteenth, 
of  France,  espousing  his  cause,  embroiled  the 
two  kingdoms,  and  plunged  them  into  a  long- 
protracted  war.  Their  neighbor  provinces  thus 
involved  in  hostilities,  the  native  tribes  of  each 
became  terrible  instruments  of  destruction  and 
death  on  every  side.  And  most  fearfully  was 
Lancaster  assailed  by  the  Canadian  Indians 
under  command  of  their  French  leaders,  who 
employed  against  her  fire-arms  the  torch  and 
tomahawk,  with  every  other  species  of  barbari- 


LANCASTER.  253 

ty  and  torture  that  savage  excitement  of  a 
heathen  spirit  could  suggest.  .  *  m  * 
*  *  But  history  has  been  too  faith 

ful  a  recorder  of  the  scenes  of  those  days ;  and 
this  is  so  familiar,  or  accessible  to  all,  as  to  ad 
mit  of  nothing  said  here,  by  way  of  farther 
information ;  while  the  atrocities,  the  sufferings, 
and  the  sorrows  it  has  chronicled,  are  of  too 
distressing  a  nature  to  be  needlessly  brought 
up,  and  unveiled  to  present  view.  I  will  now, 
therefore,  pass  over  a  long,  harrowing  detail  of 
these,  and  as  some  slight  illustration  of  the 
state  of  things,  when  the  sufferings  of  Lancas 
ter  from  the  red  men  were  drawing  to  a  close, 
give  a  sketch  or  two  from  one  point  —  the  gar 
rison  of  Mr.  Thomas  Sawyer. 


THE   FRIGHTENED   HORSE. 

It  is  morning,  September  11,  1697.  The 
enemy  have  been  gone  a  long  time  from  Lan 
caster.  The  inhabitants  have  no  suspicion  of 
their  return,  and  are  off  their  guard.  One  has 
gone  to  his  own  house,  another  to  his  field,  a 
third  elsewhere ;  till  none  remain  to  take  care 
of  the  garrison,  the  gates  of  which  are  left 


254  LANCASTER. 

wide  open,  and  a  few  children  only  are  playing 
within  and  around  it.  Among  them  is  a  little 
son  of  Mr.  Jabez  Fairbanks.  Mr.  Fairbanks 
is  gone  to  his  house,  about  half  a  mile  off, 
intending  soon  to  return,  and  take  his  child 
home. 

Suddenly  his  horse  comes  running  to  him, 
affrighted,  puffing,  his  ears  pricked,  his  eyes 
flashing  fire,  and  seeming  as  if  he  would  break 
forth  in  speech,  while  trying  every  power  of 
his  mute  eloquence  to  make  his  master  under 
stand  what  has  terrified  him.  Yet  the  master 
cannot  take  the  meaning  of  these  earnest  ex 
pressions  of  the  generous  animal.  He  thinks, 
however,  it  is  a  good  opportunity  to  fulfil  his 
intention  of  going  for  his  child  —  mounts,  and 
turns  the  horse  towards  the  garrison.  The 
swift-footed  creature  sets  off  at  full  speed,  and, 
without  slackening  his  pace,  carries  his  rider 
furiously  within  the  open  gates.  Mr.  Fair 
banks  has  hardly  time  to  close  them,  when  the 
mute  language  of  the  animal  is  explained. 

Several  companies  of  Indians,  who  had  come 
in  the  absence  of  the  people,  and  were  on  the 
point  of  rushing  in,  and  taking  the  garrison, 
seeing  Mr.  Fairbanks  approach  with  such 


LANCASTER.  255 

haste,  supposing  themselves  discovered,  spring 
from  their  ambush  behind  the  trees  and  fences, 
and  betake  themselves  to  flight.  The  little 
boy,  unharmed,  bounds  to  his  father's  arms ; 
and  thou,  noble  horse !  hast  saved  him  and  the 
garrison. 


THREE  MEN  CAPTURED.    THE  FIRST  SAW-MILL 
IN   CANADA. 

October  15th,  1705.  At  day-break  the  garri 
soned  house  of  Mr.  Thomas  Sawyer  is  again 
attacked  by  the  ferocious  Canadian  Indians. 
His  youngest  son,  a  lad  of  fourteen,  has  made 
his  escape  through  a  back  window;  but  Mr. 
Sawyer  himself,  his  son  Elias,  and  another 
young  man,  John  Bigelow,  are  captured. 

And  now  commences  their  dismal  and  pain 
ful  journey,  the  end  of  which  is  designed  to  be 
certain  and  cruel  death.  Mr.  Sawyer,  having 
fought  valiantly  and  successfully  with  the  sav 
ages  many  times,  now  that  he  is  in  their  pow 
er,  is  an  object  of  their  special  barbarity ;  and 
is  treated  with  every  cruelty  that  will  not  disa- 


256  LANCASTER. 

ble  him  to  continue  his  route  towards  Canada  : 
but  the  young  men  are  used  with  more  mercy. 

At  length  their  melancholy  pilgrimage  brings 
them  to  Montreal,  the  place  appointed  for  their 
immolation  by  the  fagot  and  other  instruments 
of  torture. 

Here  Mr.  Sawyer  has  an  interview  with  the 
French  governor.  He  informs  him  that  he  is 
himself  an  experienced  mill-wright  —  that  he 
has  observed  a  very  favorable  site  on  the  river 
Chamblee,  for  the  erection  of  mills ;  and  that, 
if  he  will  ransom  him  and  his  companions, 
they  will  build  a  fine  mill  for  sawing,  there  so 
much  needed.  There  being  at  the  time  no 
saw-mill  in  Canada,  and  no  architect  capable 
of  building  one,  the  governor  readily  accepts 
the  proposition,  and  the  contract  is  closed. 

He  has  no  difficulty  in  redeeming  the  two 
young  men,  and  they  are  liberated.  But  the 
blood-thirsty  savages  refuse  to  give  Mr.  Sawyer 
up  at  any  price;  and  are  determined  to  glut 
their  malice  and  vengeance,  by  sacrificing  him 
with  every  species  of  torture  they  can  devise, 
and  a  lingering  death. 

Already  the  preparations  are  made.  Already 
is  he  bound  to  the  stake,  and  the  fuel  gathered 


LANCASTER.  257 

on  the  spot,  while  the  demoniac  preliminaries 
and  incantations  are  enacted  within  the  circle 
around  him,  and  the  echo  of  malignant  voices 
passes  among  the  rocks  and  woods. 

But,  hold !  who  comes  here  ?  A  venerable, 
black-robed  form,  with  solemn  aspect  and  de 
termined  air,  enters  upon  the  scene.  He  has  a 
cross  on  his  breast,  a  book  in  his  hand,  and 
at  his  girdle  an  instrument  such  as  the  savages 
have  never  seen.  It  is  a  Jesuit  Priest,  who 
comes  demanding  the  surrender  of  the  captive 
uninjured. 

He  takes  the  instrument  in  his  hand,  holds  it 
forth,  assuring  the  Indians  that  it  is  the  key  of 
the  bottomless  pit  —  of  the  infernal  regions; 
and  if  they  do  not  at  once  release  the  prisoner, 
he  will  open  the  earth  and  let  them  all  down  in 
an  instant !  They  are,  as  by  lightning,  struck 
dumb  and  motionless,  and  stand  aghast,  till  the 
victim's  bands  are  loosed  ;  and  he  departs,  un 
scathed,  to  fulfil  his  promise  to  the  Governor. 

Mr.  Sawyer,  with  his  two  young  men,  sets 
about  the  promised  work.  In  a  year  the  mill 
is  completed,  and  in  brisk  operation.  He  and 
Bigelow  now  depart  for  their  home.  The 
Governor  retains  young  Sawyer  in  his  service 
17 


258  LANCASTER. 

one  year  longer,  as  a  teacher  of  others  in  the 
sawing  craft  At  the  end  of  this,  he  also  re 
turns  to  his  native  place.  *  *  * 
*  *  Let  those,  and  especially  those  from 
Lancaster,  who,  at  the  present  day,  visit  Mont 
real,  cast  an  eye  over  her  architectural  grandeur, 
and  reflect  under  what  circumstances,  and  by 
whom  were  begun  the  operations  which  have 
tended  to  transform  the  frowning  forests  into 
the  magnificent,  glittering  city. 

You,  who  may  behold  it,  I  know  not  what 
peril  you  may  be  in ;  or  how,  or  to  what  you 
may  be  bound  ;  but  whatever  be  your  trials  — 
whether  the  cord  be  on  the  body  or  the  spirit, 
to  bind  it  to  posts  of  torture,  never  despair! 
You  know  not  what  great  work  you  may  yet 
be  saved  to  perform.  Remember,  the  hand 
that  set  the  first  spring  of  this  immense  process 
in  motion  —  that  erected  the  first  saw-mill  in 
Canada,  on  its  noble  river  Chamblee,  was  that 
of  a  man  just  released  from  the  stake.  You 
who  have  the  power  of  helping  or  saving  mer 
cy,  fail  not  to  exercise  it  for  the  relief  of  a  suf 
ferer,  whether  so  morally,  physically,  or  in  a 
pecuniary  sense.  For  you  know  not  what 
great  wave  of  good  you  may  thus  set  in  mo 
tion,  to  flow  on,  on,  never  to  cease. 


LANCASTER.  259 

One  long  absent  from  Lancaster  thus  sings 
back  from  afar,  a  simple  lay  of  affectionate 
reminiscence. 

'  0,  Lancaster !  just  as  I  saw  thee  in  childhood, 
Does  memory,  still  as  a  child,  cling  to  thee ; 

Where  once,  'mid  the  flowers  of  thy  meadows  and  wild-wood, 
I  roamed,  culling  sweets,  like  a  careless  young  bee ! 

'  I  see  thy  green  turf  with  the  red  berries  sprinkled ; 

The  spice  of  thy  pines  I  inhale  from  the  breeze  ; 
I  still  hear  the  lonely  old  cow-bell,  that  tinkled, 

As,  vagrant,  its  wearer  browsed  through  the  green  trees. 

'  I  hear  the  cracked  sound  of  the  mill-wheel  that  clattered, 
When,  fierce,  the  pent  waters  rushed  pale  from  the  flume ; 

Then,  taming  their  pace  as  the  wild  spray  was  scattered, 
Ran  off",  bright  and  singing,  through  verdure  and  bloom. 

'  I  still  hear  rehearsed  the  old  tale  of  the  quarry 
Of  far-carried  slate,  which  my  grandfather  found, 

Inwrought  with  the  names,  Whighting,  Harrington,  Torrey, 
And  others,  the  first  ever  taught  me  by  sound. 

1  But  cease,  restless  memory,  cease  from  thy  sweeping 
So  hard  on  these  heart-strings  to  things  past  away ! 

With  phantoms  of  joys  that  in  ashes  are  sleeping, 
O,  shake  not  the  chords,  lest  they  break  by  thy  play ! ' 


ST.   BERNARD. 


To  him  whose  wanderings  on  our  uneven, 
terraqueous  planet,  have  been  among  the  stu 
pendous  and  fantastic  works  of  nature,  exhib 
ited  in  the  lake  and  mountain  scenery  of 
Switzerland ;  and  thence,  over  the  frozen  passes 
of  the  Alps,  into  the  smiling  vineyards  and 
olive-groves  of  sunny  Italy,  the  name  of  the 
Great  St.  Bernard  will  never  be  an  uninterest 
ing  sound.  It  will  revive  in  him  old,  ineffable 
ideas  of  the  picturesque,  the  magnificent,  the 
sublime,  unparalleled  in  the  physical  world; 
and  those  of  moral  beauty  and  grandeur,  even 
more  rarely  witnessed,  in  the  character  and 
purposes  of  his  fellow-man*  It  will  present  to 
his  recollections  the  sea  of  ice,  the  mountain 
of  snow,  the  fearful,  impending  avalanche,  the 
piercing  air  —  all  that  is  chilling,  cheerless,  and 
menacing  to  the  traveller  through  a  region  of 


ST.    BERNARD.  261 

almost  perpetual  winter,  contrasted  in  his  mind 
with  all  that  he  found  cheering,  comforting,  and 
refreshing  in  the  hospice,  with  its  warm  hearth, 
its  ready  table,  and  the  unfeigned,  cordial  wel 
come  from  its  benevolent  inmates.  The  sound 
of  that  name  will  recall  to  his  memory  the 
hour  when  he  arrived,  cold,  weary,  and  perhaps 
benighted,  at  that  highest  place  of  human  habi 
tation  in  Europe  ;  and,  while  openly  partaking 
the  fruits  of  the  beneficence  of  its  tenants,  se 
cretly  confessed  their  self-sacrificing  efforts  and 
devotedness  in  the  cause  of  suffering  humanity, 
as  far  transcending  those  of  the  common  level 
of  mankind,  as  their  abode  exceeds  theirs  in 
point  of  elevation. 

It  will  remind  him,  too,  of  the  moment  when 
he  departed,  invigorated  and  grateful,  dropping, 
as  he  passed  out  from  under  their  hospitable 
roof,  his  thank-offering  into  the  small  contribu 
tion-box  in  the  chapel  —  the  unasked  and  only 
pecuniary  return  for  the  entertainment  he  had 
received.  He  will  remember,  also,  that  he  was 
unquestioned  as  to  his  faith,  whether  Pagan, 
Jew,  or  Christian ;  and  that  he  went  on  his 
way  rejoicing,  with  a  heart  enlarged,  and  more 
than  ever  in  love  with  all  his  fellow-men-— 


262  ST.    BERNARD. 

invoking,  perhaps,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  the  blessing  of  Heaven  on  a  fraternity  of 
monks. 

Even  the  docile  and  philanthropic  dogs  of 
the  hospice  will  come  in  for  a  share  of  his 
respectful  and  affectionate  remembrance,  when 
he  recalls  the  humane  teaching  of  which  they 
are  susceptible,  their  obedience  to  man's  in 
struction,  and  their  untiring  toil  and  fidelity  in 
seeking  out  travellers,  and  saving  their  lives 
when  bewildered  or  overcome  by  cold  and 
fatigue,  in  their  journey  across  the  mountain. 

But,  in  this  age  of  stir  and  restlessness,  when 
general  and  ceaseless  locomotion  seems  to  be 
the  order  of  the  day,  and  the  world  appears 
possessed  of  a  spirit  of  '  going  to  and  fro  in  the 
earth,  and  walking  up  and  down  in  it,'  there 
may,  perhaps,  be  some  who  have  experienced, 
and  others  who  have  heard  of,  the  kindness  of 
the  benevolent  brothers  of  the  hospice  of  the 
Great  and  of  the  Little  St.  Bernard,  who  may 
yet  be  unacquainted  with  the  early  private  his 
tory  of  the  founder  of  these  institutions,  from 
whom  both  mountains  derive  their  names. 

If  you  pass  into  Savoy,  partly  encompassed 
by  vine-clad  hills  and  retreating  mountains, 


ST.    BERNARD.  263 

you  will  find  the  gloomy  old  town  of  Annecy, 
situated  at  the  outlet  of  a  small  lake  of  the 
same  name,  whose  escaping  waters  form  a 
stream  running  through  the  town,  which,  in  its 
days  of  pride  and  opulence,  was  vain  of  this 
bright  feature ;  and  enjoyed  it  as  a  source  of 
pleasure  and  convenience  to  powerful,  aristo 
cratic  inhabitants. 

Before  the  Revolution,  so  destructive  to  the 
temporal  estate  of  the  Savoyard  nobility,  this 
town  was  a  place  of  much  importance.  It 
was  the  residence  of  many  noble  families. 
Here  the  Genevois  counts  had  a  stately  castle, 
and  the  bishop  held  a  court.  The  magnificent 
edifice,  the  pompous  equipage,  and  the  lofty 
bearing  of  the  people,  proclaimed  the  worldly 
wealth  and  pride  of  the  place ;  while  numerous 
churches,  nunneries,  and  their  appurtenances, 
declared  its  poorness  in  spirit  and  ghostly  hu 
mility. 

But,  subsequent  to  this  period,  the  town  took 
a  different  aspect,  and  became  as  a  widowed 
bride;  or  a  queen,  suddenly  robbed  of  her 
crown  and  ornaments,  and  sitting  in  sackcloth 
and  tears.  Where  once  rolled  the  glittering 
carriage,  was  now  seen  the  impoverished  pe- 


264  ST.    BERNARD. 

destrian,  anxious  and  solitary.  Ruin  took  hold 
of  the  architecture,  and  moss  and  mildew  came 
upon  the  ruin.  The  passage  to  many  a  splen 
did  mansion,  once  lightly  paced  by  the  foot  of 
the  buoyant-hearted  and  gaily  dressed,  had  be 
come  forsaken  and  choked  with  confused  de 
bris.  The  convents  were  thrown  open,  their 
pious  recluses  scattered  abroad,  and  the  de 
cayed  buildings  desecrated  as  warehouses,  or 
perverted  to  other  uses  equally  opposed  to  their 
former  sanctity.  The  castle  of  the  counts  was, 
in  one  part  of  it,  converted  to  a  prison,  while 
the  other  was  appropriated  as  barracks  for 
small  detachments  of  squalid  soldiery. 

After  a  long  season  of  dismal  desolation,  the 
first  symptom  of  revival  in  the  place,  appeared 
in  the  utilitarian  introduction  of  the  apparatus 
for  a  cotton  factory,  whose  wheels  were  to  be 
moved  by  the  waters  of  that  beautiful  stream, 
which  had  so  often  carried  on  the  poet's  mus 
ing,  the  scholar's  reverie,  the  devotee's  devo 
tion;  and  this,  too,  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
town  which  had  been  a  favorite  resort  of  the 
philosophic,  the  refined,  the  pontifical ! 

The  mercenary  machinery  took  possession 
of  a  building  originally  consecrated  as  the 


ST.    BERNARD.  265 

abode  of  a  holy  sisterhood  of  nuns ;  and  through 
its  hungry,  gnashing  teeth,  gave  out  the  harsh 
sounds  of  the  spirit  of  this  world,  where  their 
sweet  voices  and  their  hymns  had  long  since 
died  away. 

On  the  side  of  the  narrow  lake,  opposite  to 
the  town  of  Annecy,  among  the  gently-swelling 
hills  that  stand  between  the  level  earth  imme 
diately  bordering  the  water,  and  the  mountains 
rising  moderately  above  them  in  the  back 
ground,  are  several  ancient  castles,  relics  of 
the  feudal  ages,  and  emblems  of  old  baronial 
firmness,  defensive  power,  and  domestic  mag 
nificence. 

One  of  these  castles  belonged  to  the  high 
and  mighty  family  of  Menthon,  who  had  it 
inscribed  in  stone  over  the  gate-way  of  their 
edifice,  to  remain  when  their  deeds  and  their 
clay,  each  of  so  much  importance  in  their  own 
day,  should  be  of  little  or  none  in  ours,  that  the 
Menthons  were  a  line  of  barons  before  the 
Christian  era!  Alas,  alas,  for  human  vanity, 
family  pride,  trust  in  titles,  power,  and  riches ! 
Dust  and  darkness  shroud  them  till  the  clear 
light  and  the  free  air  of  time  dissolve  and 
sweep  them  away. 


266  ST.    BERNARD. 

The  lord  of  this  house  and  domain,  in  the 
early  part  of  the  tenth  century,  was  the  son  of 
an  illustrious  sire,  Oliver  de  Menthon,  Count 
of  Geneva,  and  friend  and  companion  of  the 
immortal  Charlemagne.  And,  in  the  year  923, 
(or,  as  some  say,  928,)  in  this  castle,  his  son, 
BERNARD,  sole  heir  to  the  honors  of  the  Men- 
thons,  entered,  a  little  crying  novice,  on  this 
world's  stage  of  shifting  scenery,  to  battle  with 
its  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit. 

Great  was  the  exultation  in  the  castle  at  his 
birth,  that  a  son  was  given  to  perpetuate  the 
glory  and  magnify  the  name  of  the  honorable 
house  of  Menthon.  Scarcely  was  the  babe 
wrapped  in  swaddling-bands,  when  imagina 
tion  had  already  invested  him,  as  a  future  hero, 
with  the  cuirass  and  sword  of  his  renowned 
grandfather,  Oliver ;  while  every  sturdy  shriek 
that  the  little  baron  gave  out,  was  taken  as  a 
prognostic  of  the  noise  he  was  to  make  in  the 
world,  and  of  decision  and  courage  in  the  bud. 

The  child  grew,  large  and  strong;  and,  as 
he  had  been  designed  from  the  very  peep  of 
his  existence  to  the  profession  of  arms,  bade 
fair  to  fulfil  what  seemed  the  express  purpose 
of  his  being,  to  fight  and  conquer !  When  of 


ST.    BERNARD.  267 

a  suitable  age,  his  father,  wishing  to  bestow  on 
him  a  more  finished  education  than  he  had 
himself  enjoyed,  or  than  could  be  given  him 
at  home,  sent  him  to  Paris,  and  placed  him 
under  such  a  tutor  as  he  thought  would  train 
up  his  mind  in  the  way  it  should  go. 

When  the  time  of  his  pupilage  had  elapsed, 
Bernard  was  recalled  home,  to  stand  up  in  the 
castle  of  his  inheritance  with  the  form  of  full- 
grown  manhood,  and  the  majestic  and  invinci 
ble  spirit  of  a  mature  Savoyard  nobleman  and 
commander. 

But  great  was  the  astonishment  and  the  dis 
appointment  of  his  parents,  at  their  son's  re 
turn,  on  finding  that  they  had  placed  him  under 
the  tuition  of  an  instructor  widely  different  from 
the  one  they  had  intended  and  thought  him  to 
be.  Bernard  was  humble,  solemn,  often  ab 
stracted,  loving  retirement,  and  seeming  to  have 
devoted  himself  to  a  cause  wholly  at  variance 
with  carnal  pride  and  indulgence,  and  all  tem 
poral  glory.  He  was  disinclined  to  speak  or 
to  hear  of  any  of  these  things ;  and  gave  evi 
dence  of  his  determination  to  wrestle  —  not 
with  flesh  and  blood,  but  with  the  power  and 
against  the  dominion  of  sin  and  Satan. 


268  ST.    BERNARD. 

His  mind  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  the 
teachings  and  warnings  he  had  received  from 
his  patron,  St.  Nicholas ;  he  had  solemnly  de 
voted  himself  to  a  life  of  poverty  and  humility, 
and  the  cause  of  Him  whose  kingdom  is  not 
of  this  world.  He  had  dreamed  dreams,  had 
visions,  and  received  calls  in  heavenly  voices  — 
all  forbidding  him  to  seek  earthly  power  and 
riches,  and  prompting  him  to  take  up  the  cross 
and  turn  away  from  an  alluring,  deceitful,  evil 
world.  His  time  was  spent  in  prayer,  praise, 
and  prophecy,  or  in  other  religious  exercises 
and  retirement  for  meditation. 

The  father's  mortification  at  this  disappoint 
ment  was  insupportable ;  and  his  whole  study 
and  object  were  now  to  redeem  his  son  from 
this  unexpected  state  of  mind,  and  his  unearthly 
course.  To  effect  this,  his  own  judgment,  and 
that  of  his  friends,  suggested  a  matrimonial 
alliance.  Accordingly,  the  beautiful  young 
heiress  of  another  noble  house  was  selected  as 
the  all-potent  charm. 

The  uncommon  personal  beauty  of  the  lovely 
Marguerite  de  Miolans,  with  her  sweet,  affec 
tionate  disposition  and  cheerfulness  of  spirit, 
seemed  fully  adequate  to  dispelling  the  infatua- 


ST.    BERNARD.  269 

tion  of  Bernard;  while  the  honor  of  her  an 
cient  house  was  looked  upon  as  nowise  infe 
rior  to  that  of  Menthon. 

In  those  days,  the  marriage  contract  was 
stipulated  for  the  young  couple  by  their  pa 
rents  ;  and  it  was  the  custom  to  have  it  con 
summated,  with  all  the  display  and  festivity  of 
the  wedding,  at  the  house  of  the  bridegroom's 
father.  Bernard  saw  his  bride  elect,  and  faint 
ly  praised  her  beauty  and  seeming  excellence  ; 
and,  though  he  did  not  in  word  object  to  being 
united  to  her,  he  turned  aside  with  a  melan 
choly  air,  which  had  the  coldness  of  a  refusal, 
while  he  thought  of  the  i  King's  daughter,'  the 
church,  4  all  glorious  within,'  to  which  his  soul 
was  indissolubly  wedded. 

The  great  preparations  for  the  nuptials  went 
on,  while  he  witnessed  them  but  with  revolting 
and  horror;  and  the  whole  train  of  guests  were 
invited  to  accompany  the  betrothed  from  the 
castle  of  the  Miolans  to  that  of  the  Menthons. 

On  the  appointed  day,  with  all  the  dignity 
of  their  pompous  externals,  they  arrived,  full 
of  gladsome  spirits,  to  enliven  the  scene  ;  and 
with  healthful  appetites,  to  do  justice  to  the 
sumptuous  board  prepared  as  the  marriage 


270  ST.    BERNARD. 

feast.  The  Chateau  was  filled  with  guests, 
musicians,  and  menials,  going  hither  and  thith 
er,  every  one  with  some  important  part  to  per 
form,  like  shuttles  passing  one  another  in  the 
loom,  each  having  its  own  thread  to  carry  out, 
to  make  the  web  perfect. 

On  the  great,  auspicious  morning,  wrhen  the 
sacred  knot  was  to  be  tied,  the  family  and  their 
guests  were  assembled  in  due  array ;  but  the 
bride,  in  her  costly  adornments,  saw  no  bride 
groom  appear  to  claim  her.  They  waited  — 
he  came  not  from  his  chamber.  He  was  sum 
moned,  yet  did  not  obey ;  was  called,  but  gave 
no  answer.  The  door  of  his  apartment  was 
opened  ;  and  lo,  he  was  gone  !  The  unpressed 
pillow  showed  that  his  bed  had  given  him  no 
repose  the  previous  night ;  and  a  letter  ad 
dressed  to  his  parents,  found  lying  on  his  little 
silver  table,  told  the  rest.  In  it,  he  implored 
their  forgiveness  for  disobedience  to  their  will, 
but  pleaded  that  this  was  his  only  alternative, 
hard  as  he  felt  it  to  be,  to  avoid  disobeying 
that  of  Heaven,  whose  higher  command  and 
call  he  must  not,  dared  not  disregard. 

He  assured  them  that,  having  solemnly 
avouched  himself  for  Christ  and  his  service,  he 


ST.    BERNARD.  271 

had  only  to  take  up  his  cross  and  follow  him  ; 
and  that  he  could  not  now  go  back,  except  to 
perdition,  to  take  his  portion  from  amongst  the 
husks  and  beggarly  elements  of  the  world. 
He  argued  that,  if  he  were  a  member  of  the 
body  of  Christ,  he  must  die  to  himself  and  live 
in  him ;  as  a  penitent,  he  must  crucify  all  car 
nal  affections,  and  keep  clear  of  every  incum- 
brance  that  might  retard  or  cause  him  to  stum 
ble  in  his  holy  race.  If  Jesus  was  his  pattern, 
he  had  never  been  taught  by  his  example  to 
wed  himself  to  an  earthly  bride.  'And  what,' 
said  he,  c  did  that  great  Preceptor,  whose  word 
is  life,  intend  to  inculcate,  when  he  spake  the 
parable  of  the  feast  that  was  prepared,  and 
those  who  were  bidden,  but  refused  to  come  ? 
Surely  he  must  have  known,  and  would  have 
us  to  know  the  temptation  to  reluctance  or 
refusal  to  come  up  to  our  religious  duties,  our 
heavenly  feast,  which  a  mortal  bride  might 
prove,  when  he  stated,  that  the  first  and  the 
second  bidden  to  the  supper,  pleading  worldly 
business  as  an  apology  for  declining  the  invi 
tation,  added,  "  therefore  I  pray  thee  have  me 
excused ; "  but  the  third  said,  "  I  have  married 
a  wife,  therefore  I  cannot  come."  ' 


272  ST.    BERNARD. 

Having  filled  his  letter  with  these  and  similar 
cogent  reasons  for  his  righteous  abhorrence  of 
matrimony,  the  soundness  or  the  sophistry  of 
which,  they  who  have  tried  the  experiment, 
which  he  had  not,  can  best  decide  for  them 
selves,  the  future  saint  opened  his  window, 
and,  leaping  out  upon  a  rock  lying  many  feet 
below  it,  went  his  way,  none  but  himself  knew 
whither. 

Some  appearances  of  indentations  in  the 
rock,  seen  at  this  day,  the  good  Catholic  as 
sures  the  traveller,  are  the  prints  of  the  saint's 
feet,  as  they  met  it  from  the  leap ;  when  it  was 
miraculously  softened  to  receive  them,  and  then 
turned  hard  as  adamant. 

The  scene  of  confusion,  of  dismay,  and  con 
sternation  —  some  spirits  bristling  with  haughty 
resentment,  others  cast  down  with  sorrow — 
which  the  castle  presented  when  the  flight  was 
discovered,  would  defy  all  power  of  descrip 
tion,  even  if  the  narrow  limits  here  prescribed 
did  not  forbid  it  in  fuller  detail.  But  none  of 
all  the  actors  in  the  drama,  claimed  so  much 
unmingled  tenderness  and  pity  as  the  beautiful, 
forsaken  betrothed,  and  none  performed  so 
high-minded  and  heroic  a  part. 


ST.    BERNARD.  273 

Could  the  fugitive  bridegroom  have  looked 
back  and  seen  her  in  this  trying  moment,  he 
would,  perhaps,  have  repented  of  his  rash  step, 
and  owned  that,  if  his  reasoning  had  been  right 
as  to  generality,  yet  here,  in  an  especial  case,  it 
might  be  a  little  sophistical. 

While  the  Baron  de  Menthon  and  his  lady 
were  overwhelmed  by  grief  and  despair  at 
their  bereavement,  and  mortification  from  the 
disappointment,  they  knew  not  how  to  meet 
the  insulted  dignity  of  the  Miolans. 

The  lofty  old  father  of  the  deserted  maiden, 
and  all  his  party,  except  the  meek-spirited 
daughter,  towered  high  with  indignation,  and 
flashed  with  ire  at  the  dishonor  cast  on  their 
ancient  house  ;  and,  placing  the  hand  upon  the 
hilt  of  the  sword,  they  began  to  talk  of  obtain 
ing  recompense  at  its  point.  High  words  and 
significant  gestures  seemed  to  be  fast  forming 
the  preliminaries  of  a  civil  war  between  the 
two  houses.  And  this,  according  to  the  cus 
tom  of  the  times,  when  men  looked  to  their 
trusty  steel  for  satisfaction,  in  all  cases  of  per 
sonal  or  family  insult  or  injury,  would  no 
doubt  have  ensued,  had  not  the  gentle  Mar 
guerite,  like  a  genuine  pearl,  as  her  name  sig- 
18 


274  ST.    BERNARD, 

nines,  shone  out  with  a  pure,  native  lustre, 
which  seemed  the  brightness  of  a  holier  world 
than  this. 

After  a  short  but  severe  inward  struggle  to 
suppress  her  emotions,  she  came  between  the 
jarring  parties  like  an  angel  of  peace;  and, 
declaring  her  free  and  full  forgiveness  of  the 
offence,  expressed  herself  satisfied  with  the 
pious  reasons  rendered  by  the  absconder,  for 
thus  suddenly  turning  and  fleeing  from  the 
hymeneal  altar,  when  brought  so  near  as  to  feel 
himself  scorched  by  its  flame.  Her  gentle 
spirit  subdued  the  turbulence  of  her  choleric 
friends ;  and  their  angry  passions,  rebuked  by 
her  magnanimity,  fell  back  like  the  receding 
Waves  of  a  troubled  sea,  at  the  ebb  of  tide. 
Glad  that  they  had  been  saved  from  an  attempt 
to  wash  out  the  imagined  stain  of  their  glory 
with  blood,  and  commiserating  the  wretched 
ness  of  the  forsaken  parents,  they  returned  in 
peace  to  their  own  homes. 

Shortly  after  this  strange  event,  the  disap 
pointed  Marguerite,  sick  of  the  world,  and 
wishing  to  withdraw  from  it  forever,  abjured  it 
with  its  deceit,  its  riches,  and  its  vanities,  and 
retired  into  a  convent  for  life.  Here  her  supe- 


ST.    BERNARD.  275 

rior  virtues  and  eminent  piety  soon  won  for 
her  the  respect  and  love  of  the  whole  sister 
hood  ;  till  at  length,  in  due  time,  she  became 
prioress  of  the  convent  in  Annecy,  which  has 
before  been  mentioned,  as  recently  converted 
into  a  place  of  spindles  and  looms,  and  the 
more  secularly-inspired  sisters  of  a  factory. 

The  Baron  de  Menthon  and  lady,  having 
found  all  search  for  their  lost  son  but  vain,  re 
tired  from  public  life;  and,  immuring  them 
selves  from  the  world  within  their  own  castle, 
sunk  into  a  state  of  quiet  melancholy,  which 
succeeded  the  storm  of  sorrow  and  despair,  as 
a  calm  settles  on  a  landscape,  when  the  hurri 
cane  has  laid  its  honors  waste. 

Thus,  for  a  long  lapse  of  years,  did  they  re 
main  secluded,  passing  their  time  in  noiseless 
but  bitter  repentance  for  their  rash  experiment 
of  coercion  on  their  only  child  ;  and  wholly  in 
the  dark  as  to  every  thing  connected  with  his 
course  or  his  fate,  after  the  farewell  left  behind 
him  in  his  letter,  on  the  eventful  night  previous 
to  the  visionary  wedding. 

While  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  seemed 
not  to  have  arisen  to  their  souls  '  with  healing 
in  his  wings,'  the  sun  of  their  earthly  glory  had 
set  forever.  Or  if  some  gleams  of  lingering 


276  ST.    BERNARD. 

light  at  times  appeared,  it  was  only  to  show 
long,  dark  shadows  of  forms  that  were  unseen 
or  passing  away,  and  all  to  be  lost  in  the  chill 
and  hush  of  a  starless  night. 

Then,  strange  spirit-whisperings  came  near, 
warning  them  that  time  was  short  —  the  grave 
close  before  them  — earth's  elements  preparing 
to  become  food  for  devouring  fire — the  skies  to 
drop  the  stars,  as  a  tree  its  untimely  fruit,  and 
pass  away ;  and  it  behooved  them  speedily  to 
make  their  peace  with  Heaven,  through  Him 
who,  in  reference  to  that  day,  assures  his 
friends,  'Because  I  live,  ye  shall  live  also.' 
And  to  claim  a  share  in  this  promise,  was  the 
righteous  resolution  to  which  they  ultimately 
came.  They  made  confession  of  their  sins, 
and  poured  out  the  burden  of  their  contrite 
hearts  before  the  mercy-seat,  crying,  first  for 
the  'grace  of  supplication,'  that  they  might 
pray  aright  for  the  bread  for  which  their  souls 
were  starving ;  that  they  might  even  be  allowed 
the  crumbs  that  fell  from  their  Lord's  table,  in 
conscious  unworthiness  of  a  seat  at  the  board 
among  his  chosen  friends.  They  distributed 
of  their  substance  to  the  poor,  and  made  boun 
teous  donations  of  their  temporal  riches,  with 
a  view  to  eternal  interest.  Still,  they  asked 


ST.    BERNARD.  277 

increase  of  faith,  till  grace  for  grace  was  given 
them  in  manifold  proportion ;  while  their  heads 
were  whitening  with  the  frost  of  life's  winter 
time,  and  the  hues  of  earth  becoming  dim 
through  its  chilly  haze.  But  ever,  among  the 
softest,  inmost  folds  of  their  parental  hearts, 
one  burning,  wasting  desire  was  closely  wrap 
ped  up,  as  the  canker  in  the  bud,  and  silently 
feeding.  Could  they  only  be  favored  with 
some  communication,  either  from  earth  or 
heaven,  that  would  inform  them  what,  and 
where,  had  been  the  life ;  or  when,  and  how, 
the  death  of  their  lost  Bernard,  then  they  felt 
they  could  depart  in  peace !  Yet  no  human 
or  angel  hand  lifted  the  sable  curtain,  behind 
which  he  had  passed,  and  vanished  out  of  sight. 

They  asked  in  midnight's  solemn  shade  — 
When  morning's  splendor  shone  — 

If  he  to  distant  lands  had  strayed ; 

If  in  the  grave  his  dust  were  laid ; 

If  he  in  glory  stood  arrayed 
Before  the  eternal  throne. 

None  answered  through  night's  silent  gloom  ! 

No  beams  of  opening  day 
The  painful  mystery  could  illume : 
Nought  from  the  world  of  deathless  bloom, 
From  distant  earth,  or  secret  tomb, 
Told  how  he  passed  away. 


278  ST.    BERNARD. 

As  this  aged  couple  perceived  themselves 
nearly  down  the  steep  descent  of  life,  and  ap 
proaching  the  dark  valley  through  which  none 
shall  ever  retrace  his  steps,  they  felt  an  increas 
ing  desire  for  wisdom  and  strength  to  console 
and  sustain  them  in  the  trial  which  every  one 
must  meet  alone. 

Fame  had  spread  abroad  the  transcendent 
piety,  eminent  good  works  and  unbounded 
hospitality  of  a  holy  father  of  a  monastery  of 
brethren  of  the  St.  Augustine  order,  in  the 
town  of  Aosta,  on  the  Italian  side  of  the  Alps. 
His  counsel  was  said  to  be  light,  and  his  teach 
ing,  understanding  ;  and  to  him,  in  their  hoary 
age,  did  the  Baron  de  Menthon  and  his  lady 
resolve  to  make  a  pilgrimage,  to  seek  his  in 
struction  and  blessing,  while  time  and  ability 
yet  remained  for  them  to  perform  the  journey. 

They  reached  the  monastery,  were  affection 
ately  welcomed  by  the  reverend  superior,  made 
known  the  object  of  their  visit,  and  related  to 
him  the  whole  story  of  their  life  and  sorrow. 

To  the  pathetic  tale  of  the  lost  son,  and  their 
affecting  confession  of  contrition  for  the  course 
by  which  they  had  driven  him  into  exile,  and 
made  themselves  childless,  the  prior  listened 


ST.    BERNARD.  279 

with  deep  interest,  and  apparent  firmness,  till 
it  became  too  much  for  his  disciplined  mind, 
with  its   Christian  philosophy  in  full  exercise, 
to  suppress   or  conceal  the  powerful  emotions 
of  his  bosom.     He  found  himself  situated  like 
Joseph  in  Egypt,  while  listening  to  the  story  of 
his  brethren ;  yet  he  could  not,  like  him,  stay 
to  enter  into  his  chamber  and  weep  there,  be 
fore  he  fell  upon  their  necks  and  kissed  them, 
revealing  himself  as  no  other  than  their  long- 
lost  Bernard,  and  uttering  the  forgiving  senti 
ment  of  his  magnanimous  prototype :  '  Now, 
therefore,  be  not  grieved  nor  angry  with  your 
selves  that  ye  sold  me  hither.  .....  So  now,  it 

was  not  you  that  sent  me  hither,  but  God,' 

It  was  a  scene  not  to  be  described,  and  al 
most  too  affecting  to  be  considered,  when  the 
aged  parents  clasped  once  more  the  child  of 
their  youth  and  their  pride,  sobbing  and  speech 
less,  while  their  swelling  hearts  seemed  burst 
ing  with  the  cry,  '  Our  son  was  lost,  but  now 
is  found  ;  was  dead,  but  lives  again ! ' 

After  the  first  flood  of  emotion  had  subsid 
ed,  a  happy  season  of  mutual  confession  and 
blessing  followed,  with  a  relation  of  his  history 
and  their  sufferings  since  their  separation,  and 


280  ST.    BERNARD. 

an  account  of  the  whole  proceedings,  from  the 
morning  when  his  mysterious  flight  caused 
such  a  strange  scene  of  confusion  in  his  native 
castle. 

The  venerable  couple  passed  many  days  at 
the  monastery,  and  then  returned  to  their  home, 
where  they  spent  the  remainder  of  their  time 
in  a  holy  tranquillity ;  and  at  length  departed 
this  life,  in  the  full  assurance  of  being  finally 
united  to  their  son  in  that  happy  kingdom 
where  they  go  no  more  out  forever. 

Bernard,  after  his  wild  start  and  sudden 
spring  from  under  the  yoke  that  was  about  to 
be  fastened  on  him  for  life,  and  his  unknightly 
escape  from  the  lovely  Marguerite  and  the  cas 
tle  of  his  ancestors,  bent  his  course  towards 
Aosta,  and  entered  its  monastery,  a  nameless, 
lonely  stranger.  By  his  extraordinary  piety 
and  ability,  manifested  as  he  passed  through 
the  different  stages  of  duty  and  office,  he  rap 
idly  advanced  to  the  priorship. 

Here  he  exercised  the  most  liberal  hospi 
tality  ;  and,  among  many  other  good  works, 
undertook  to  open  a  passage  to  the  neighbor 
ing  mountain,  for  the  benefit  of  pilgrims  on 
their  way  to  Rome, 


ST.    BERNARD.  281 

The  Romans,  in  their  days  of  paganism, 
had  used  this  route  into  the  Vallais ;  and  on 
the  highest  point  of  the  passage,  had  erected  a 
temple,  to  propitiate  the  destroying  demon  who 
was  supposed  to  haunt  the  place,  assuming  at 
pleasure  any  form  that  might  best  serve  his 
purpose.  Sometimes  he  was  said  to  come 
clothed  in  the  furious  storm,  burying  men  alive 
in  the  snow  or  ice.  Sometimes  he  appeared 
in  the  robber  or  bandit;  then,  in  the  shape  of 
wild  beasts,  rending  and  devouring  human 
victims. 

To  this  temple  did  the  benevolent  prior,  at 
the  head  of  his  monks,  labor  in  person  to  clear 
the  passage;  and  then,  with  its  materials  to 
build  a  hospice  for  travellers  on  the  spot  where 
it  had  stood.  It  was  in  this  beneficent  and 
arduous  enterprise  that  he  was  engaged,  when 
his  fame,  reaching  the  ear  of  his  parents,  occa 
sioned  them  to  make  the  journey  which  led  to 
the  happy  discovery  already  related. 

In  his  pious  and  useful  life,  whose  whole 
amount  of  good  can  never  be  cast  up  in  this 
world,  Bernard  continued  until  the  year  1008, 
when,  at  the  good  old  age  of  eighty-five,  he, 
too,  fell  asleep.  His  name  is  his  imperishable 


282  ST.    BERNARD. 

monument.  It  is  fixed  upon  the  mountains, 
where  it  will  stand  till  they- be  removed!  To 
that  where  he  took  the  old  temple  to  build  the 
hospitium,  formerly  Mount  Toux,  after  his  ca 
nonization,  was  given  the  name  of  the  '  Great 
St.  Bernard.'  Another  and  smaller  mountain, 
where  the  road  leads  over  the  Grison  Alps, 
and  where,  on  the  spot  once  occupied  by  a 
heathen  pillar,  he  built  another  hospitium,  re 
ceived  the  appellation  of  the  '  Little  St.  Ber 
nard.' 

At  his  death,  he  left  these  hospitia  in  charge 
of  the  St.  Augustine  brotherhood.  But,  in 
process  of  time,  certain  changes  taking  place 
and  difficulties  arising,  government  took  them 
under  its  especial  patronage,  and  enlarged  the 
establishments  and  their  funds,  till  they  grew 
at  length  to  their  present  magnitude  and  use 
fulness. 

One  word  more  about  the  gentle  Marguerite. 
Her  earthly  career  and  that  of  her  once-des 
tined  bridegroom  form  a  striking  antithesis. 
While  his  name  is  indelibly  engraven  on  the 
heights,  hers  is  hidden  in  a  low,  dark,  secret 
place,  and  washed  by  restless  waters,  perpetu 
ally  dashed  against  it  by  the  force  of  a  wheel. 


ST.    BERNARD.  283 

The  most  we  know  of  it  is  this.  A  few  years 
ago,  an  American  traveller,  on  an  excursion  in 
that  part  of  Europe,  after  having  found  in  an 
old  volume,^  in  a  library  of  Geneva,  a  confirma 
tion,  in  copious,  and  minute  detail,  of  the  facts 
here  related,  of  which  the  foregoing  is  but  an 
abstract,  visited  Annecy.  Here,  among  its  most 
conspicuous  objects  of  interest,  he  was  shown 
a  large  and  flourishing  cotton  factory,  built 
from  the  nunnery  of  which  the  pious  reclusey 
Marguerite,  became,  and  died,  Lady  Superior, 

The  superintendent,  showing  him  the  build 
ing  and  its  machinery,  stated,  that  the  case  of 
its  large  water-wheel  was  formed  of  the  tomb 
stones  taken  from  the  cemetery  where  the  ab 
besses  of  the  convent  had  been  buried ! 

When  that  factory  shall  have  wound  up  its 
thread,  and  in  its  turn  shall  pass  away,  leaving 
its  foundations  to  be  broken  up,  then,  and  not 
till  then,  may  the  name  of  the  beautiful  heiress 
of  Miolans,  the  fair  Marguerite,  be  brought  to 
light! 

*  The  author  of  this  volume  has  filled  several  pages  with  a 
description  of  the  confused  scene  in  the  castle,  the  morning 
after  Bernard  absconded. 


THE    HUMMING-BIRD. 


BY  one  of  those  sudden  impulses  which 
many  may  have  experienced,  but  which  few,  if 
any,  can  explain,  I  found  myself  hastily  equip 
ped,  and  out  for  a  short  walk ;  my  object,  that 
important  one  which  thousands  pursue  in  the 
locomotion  of  a  great  portion  of  their  useful 
temporal  existence-—  to  go  somewhere,  and 
come  back  again !  Indeed,  par  parenthese, 
some  appear  to  think  such  purpose  the  noblest 
end  of  their  mission  here  on  earth ;  and,  more 
over,  that  for  this  sublime  ultimatum  they  were 
dismissed  from  the  very  abode  of  the  celestials ; 
to  which  their  return  is  certain,  and  where  their 
reward  is  sure,  whilst  now  invested  with  a 
kind  of  superfine  clay.  But  I  ramble,  and 
will  return  to  my  place. 

In  a  street  not  far  from  my  own,  a  little  boy 
ran  out  from  the  side-passage  to  the  door  of  a 


THE    HUMMING-BIRD.  285 

house  I  was  passing,  and,  lifting  his  beautiful 
blue  eyes  earnestly  to  my  face,  then,  dropping 
them  at  my  feet,  cried,  '  Humming-bird !  hum 
ming-bird  ! ' 

Looking  down,  I  saw  a  small  object,  which 
seen,  as  it  was,  through  a  veil,  and  by  a  pair  of 
near-sighted  eyes,  seemed  at  first  sight  a  green 
leaf  slightly  curled  and  driven  by  the  wind; 
then,  a  disabled  butterfly  with  lopped  wings, 
running  swiftly  towards  the  middle  of  the 
street,  across  the  side-walk,  but  a  few  inches 
before  my  foot  that  had  nearly  trodden  on  it ; 
while  the  child  reiterated  his  one  word,  '  Hum 
ming-bird,  humming-bird ! '  with  the  most  im 
ploring,  earnest  expression  I  ever  witnessed  in 
a  face  of  seven  years. 

On  nearer  view,  I  perceived  that  it  was,  sure 
enough,  a  humming-bird,  with  close-folded 
wings,  gliding  along  on  its  tiny  invisible  feet, 
like  a  reptile,  so  near  the  ground  that  its  bosom 
and  train  swept  the  sand.  I  took  up  the  little 
fallen  beauty  and  set  it  on  the  palm  of  my 
hand,  to  examine  its  condition,  and  see  if  I 
could  discover  the  cause  of  its  pedestrianism ; 
but  I  could  find  none. 

'  Whose  bird  is  it  ? '  said  I. 


286 


THE    HUMMING-BIRD. 


'  Mine,'  replied  the  child. 
'  Whose  little  boy  are  you  ?     What  is  your 
name  ? ' 

*  Mrs. 's  ;  my  name  is  William.' 

4  What  have  you  done  to  the  bird,  to  prevent 
its  flying  ? ' 

1  Nothing.     I  have  n't  touched  it.' 

1  How  long  have  you  had  it  ? ' 

4  It  has  just  come.  It  flew  in  there,  at  the 
other  door  of  the  wood-house,  and  came  out 
this  way,  running  on  its  feet.  I  do  n't  know 
what  makes  it  act  so.' 

*  Do  you  wish  to  keep  it ;  or  may  I  have  it  ? ' 
1  You  may  have  it.    I  have  another  up  there ;' 

and  he  pointed  to  a  cage  high  up  on  the  side 
of  the  house. 

In  the  meantime  I  had  set  the  brilliant,  living 
bijou  on  my  finger,  and  offered  it  flight.  But 
it  struck  its  delicate  claws  into  the  meshes  of 
my  glove,  and  kept  its  perch,  without  a  flutter 
or  any  symptom  of  uneasiness.  Its  plumage 
was  smooth,  and  I  could  perceive  no  sign  of 
hurt,  or  of  any  feeling  but  that  of  perfect  fa 
miliarity  and  content ;  while  it  sat,  turning  its 
sweet  little  diamond  eyes  at  me,  this  way  and 
that,  looking  like  two  rays  beaming  out  from 


THE    HUMMING-BIRD.  287 

some  bright  star  shut  up  in  its  cunning  head, 
and  seemingly  as  unconcerned  as  if  I  had  been 
a  tree,  on  a  twig  of  which  it  had  lighted.  I 
hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  this  social  ap 
pearance.  Had  it  been  a  day  of  superstition 
and  augury,  I  should  have  had  thoughts  .... 

At  length  the  mystery  was  solved.  Under 
the  tip  of  one  of  the  wings,  I  discovered  the 
end  of  a  fine  filament  like  sleaved  silk.  Tak 
ing  this  clew,  I  drew  forth  quite  a  large  cobweb 
that  had  been  bound  about  the  pinion,  or  fast 
ened  among  the  wing-feathers  beneath,  thus 
keeping^  them  from  spreading.  No  sooner  was 
the  odd  trammel  removedj  than,  quick  as  a 
flash,  the  wings  were  up,  and  the  bird  darted 
off  to  the  top  of  the  house,  above  its  prisoned 
companion,  which  had  probably  been  the  at 
traction,  when  it  met  with  the  mishap.  And 
never  did  mortal  hero  bear  misfortune  more 
philosophically  than  did  this  little  plumed 
knight-errant  his  sudden  drop  from  the  ethereal 
region,  at  the  very  moment  when  he  had  gained 
sight  of  the  object  of  his  adventure. 

In  passing  through  the  wood-house,  he  had 
come  in  contact  with  a  spider's  snare  for  the 
lesser  winged  ones ;  and,  instead  of  being 


288  THE    HUMMING-BIRD. 

caught,  had,  like  Samson  with  the  Philistine's 
gate,  borne  it  off  at  his  shoulder. 

I  now  endeavored  to  reason  with  the  child, 
to  induce  him  to  open  the  cage  and  let  his  bird 
go ;  and,  explaining  the  uselessness  and  cruelty 
of  keeping  the  little  captive  imprisoned  still,  I 
enforced  my  argument  by  a  home  illustration. 

4  Are  you  going,'  said  I,  '  to  keep  the  poor 
thing  shut  up  there,  where  it  is  pining  for  free 
dom  and  its  natural  food  and  drink,  and  where 
you  will  probably  soon  find  it  dead  of  suffering 
for  want  of  these  ?  If  liberated,  it  would  come 
humming  about  among  the  flowers,  in  your 
garden,  all  life  and  joy,  with  its  wings,  which 
now  it  cannot  use,  in  rapid  motion,  and  bright 
as  a  jewel  shining  in  the  sun.' 

'  Oh  ! '  said  William,  '  I  know  how  it  looks, 
flying,  and  among  the  flowers  ;  and  'twas  this 
made  me  want  it  for  my  own.  It  came  here, 
whizzing  over  them  this  ^morning,  bright  and 
light  as  a  soap-bubble.  When  it  stopped,  I 
put  my  hat  on  it,  and  caught  it.  But  it  did  n't 
try  to  get  away  ;  and  now,  it 's  contented  and 
happy  in  the  cage.  It  has  a  glass  of  sugar 
and  water,  and  every  thing  it  wants  there.  It 
sits  still,  and  doesn't  want  to  go.  It's  very 
happy.' 


THE    HUMMING-BIRD.  289 

'Precious  innocent!'  methought,  'such  is 
the  sophistry  of  many  older  than  thou,  with 
whom  it  would  be  well,  did  they  employ  it 
with  as  sincere  ignorance  of  the  wrong  they 
are  doing.  But,  to  "  know  the  wrong,  and  yet 
the  wrong  pursue  !  "  this  is  fastening  a  stone 
about  the  neck  of  one's  own  soul,  to  drag  it 
down,  when  the  injured  can  feel  oppression  no 
more,  and  the  oppressor  of  his  kind,  or  of  his 
brute,  shall  have  done  forever  with  power  \ ' 

'  But,'  said  I,  '  should  you  feel  contented  and 
happy,  William,  if  some  great  creature  of  a 
different  form  from  your  own,  and  as  many 
times  larger  than  you  as  you  are  larger  than 
the  bird,  should  come  and  take  you  from  all 
your  friends,  and  shut  you  up  in  prison,  where 
you  and  your  parents,  or  your  brothers,  sisters, 
and  playmates,  could  only  see  each  other 
through  the  iron  grates  ?  How  do  you  think 
your  mother  would  feel  to  see  you  thus,  even 
if  you  had  enough  to  keep  you  alive,  of  a  kind 
of  food  and  drink,  alike  new  and  disagreeable?' 

The  child  looked  serious;  and,  glancing  with 
a  wet  eye  at  the  cage,  replied,  '  I  have  n't  any 
mother,  nor  any  brothers  and  sisters.  My 

mother  is  dead !     Mrs. takes  care  of  me.' 

19 


290  THE    HUMMING-BIRD, 

i  And  where,'  I  asked,  '  do  you  think  your 
mother  is,  since  she  died  ? ' 

4  In  heaven.' 

'  Should  you  like  to  go  there  too,  when  you 
die?' 

'  I   hope  I  shall,  and  be  with  her,  and  be 
happy.' 

'  And  what  must  you  do,  to  be  able  to  meet 
her,  and  be  happy  there  ?' 

'  I  must  be  good ' 

1  Well,  my  dear,  then  you  will  not  be  cruel 
to  any  living  thing,  be  it  bird,  insect,  or  larger 
animals.  All  cruelty  is  wickedness ;  and  the 
wicked  cannot  enter  heaven.  It  is  holiness 
that  makes  the  happiness  there.  God,  who 
made  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  dwells  there. 
His  eye  beholds  at  once  all  that  he  has  made. 
He  sees  the  fall  of  every  sparrow  to  the  ground  ; 
he  made  this  beautiful  bird,  that  looks  so  sad 
in  the  cage  ;  and  he  looks  into  your  heart,  and 
knows  whether  you  are  willing  to  do  right,  or 
prefer  to  continue  on  in  the  wrong,  in  this  case, 
as  he  does  in  all  others.  I  hope  you  will  lib 
erate  the  bird,  and  let  it  go  off,  free  among  the 
others,  before  it  grows  too  sick  to  enjoy  the  use 
of  its  wings.  I  wish  you  to  consider  this.' 


THE    HUMMING-BIRD.  291 

After  this,  and  some  more  similar  counsel,  I 
left  the  child  to  ponder  it,  looking  in  a  very 
considerate  mood,  alternately  at  me  and  the 
cage,  as  if  I  had  given  him  a  hard  lesson  of 
duty  to  fulfil,  as  I  passed  from  him. 

Meeting  a  friend  who  lived  near,  and  saw 
the  child  daily,  I  told  her  the  incident,  and  the 
text  I  had  made  of  it  to  preach  a  sermon  on 
mercy,  to  her  little  neighbor.  I  asked  her  to 
ascertain  how  William  practiced  npon  what 
he  had  so  unexpectedly  heard ;  and  if  he  let 
the  bird  out,  to  provide  him  a  guide  and  send 
him  to  me. 

Early  the  next  morning  I  had  a  call  from 
William,  led  by  another  little  boy  somewhat 
older  than  himself.  He  said  he  had  come  to 
tell  me,  that  he  had  let  the  bird  out  soon  after  I 
left  him.  I  gave  him  a  little  book,  as  the  un 
expected  reward  of  his  obedience  to  my  teach 
ing.  •  It  was  full  of  pictures ;  and  he  seemed 
to  think  it  a  much  more  valuable  possession 
than  the  one  I  had  induced  him  to  relinquish 
without  any  promised  reward,  but  the  con 
sciousness  of  having  acted  aright.  This  para 
graph,  however,  is  inserted  for  the  special  grati 
fication  of  my  little  friends,  who  may  know  of 


292  THE    HUMMING-BIRD. 

my  meeting  with  William  and  the  bird.  For 
those  of  maturer  age,  a  few  reflections  follow, 
suggested  by  that  trammeled  wing. 

Let  parents,  or  those  who  stand  in  their 
places  to  little  children,  ask  themselves,  and 
answer,  if  they  can,  the  question,  '  How  soon 
does  an  infant  mind  begin  to  reason  ? ' 

Until  they  can  answer  this,  let  them  beware 
how  they  demand  implicit  obedience  to  an  in 
junction  or  prohibition,  without  explaining  its 
reasonableness.  Reason  is  the  very  ground  into 
which  the  seeds  of  instruction  must  be  sown, 
and  the  sound  stock  from  which  they  should 
fall.  A  child  cannot  obey,  till  it  can  under 
stand.  And  then,  if  compelled  to  obedience, 
through  fear  of  punishment,  without  being 
shown  the  right  of  the  command,  that  inherent 
arbiter  of  the  faculties  in  every  human  breast  — 
the  will — is  not  softened,  but  stiffened ;  and  the 
subject  of  such  government  is  very  likely  to 
pay  back  the  despotic  severity  in  an  unexpect 
ed  form  of  retribution,  in  some  after  day.  So, 
too,  is  the  neglect  to  train  the  mind  to  obe 
dience,  by  enlightening  the  understanding,  most 
commonly  recompensed  with  shame  and  sor 
row. 


THE    HUMMING-BIRD.  293 

Many  a  young  spirit,  bright  and  docile  as 
that  of  the  little  boy  with  the  bird,  has,  no 
doubt,  been  thus  thoughtlessly  hampered  by 
some  fetter  on  its  wing,  slight  perhaps  at  first, 
as  a  cobweb,  but  strong  enough  to  keep  the 
young  immdrtal  from  soaring  in  its  proper  ele 
ment  ;  and  sufficient,  in  the  end,  to  bring  the 
grey  head  of  a  parent  down  with  sorrow  to 
the  grave,  and  itself  to  a  deeper  destruction. 

Let  the  first  lessons  be  given  to  your  child 
with  mildness  and  patience ;  let  it  be  shown 
by  illustration  or  practical  example,  the  right 
or  the  wrong  of  acting  thus,  or  so,  at  once 
appealing  to  the  reasoning  powers  and  address 
ing  the  better  feelings  of  its  nature,  and  it  will, 
most  generally,  afterwards  give  you  its  faith 
and  yield  a  ready  obedience,  when  you  do  not 
stop  to  explain,  till  the  wisdom  of  your  judg 
ment  appears  in  the  result. 

I  believe  that  in  most  cases,  where  parents 
go  sorrowing  to  the  dust,  and  this,  often,  before 
their  time,  from  affliction  brought  on  them  by 
their  children,  the  root  of  the  evil  may  be  trace 
able  to  themselves,  in  their  own  wrong  begin 
ning  with  their  tender  offspring.  Some  how 
or  other,  they  mismanaged  the  infant  being. 


294  THE    HUMMING-BIRD. 

They  may  have  been  too  indulgent ;  and  of 
that  faith  which  a  fond  Yankee  mother  some 
years  ago  professed — that  she  believed  in  total 
depravity,  fully,  as  it  related  to  all  children  but 
her  own  ;  yet  these  she  could  not  think  had  '  a 
spark  of  it ! '  They  may  have  been  too  rigid 
and  severe.  They  may  have  claimed  from 
their  children  a  strict  obedience  to  precepts 
which  they  did  not  themselves  practice  before 
them ;  thus  virtually  saying,  in  the  most  im 
pressive  language,  '  See  that  ye  do  as  we  say, 
but  not  as  we  do.'  Perhaps  they  punished 
their  child  for  a  little  show  of  human  nature 
in  resistance  or  resentment,  themselves  the 
while  burning  red  with  anger.  It  may  have 
been  even  so,  for  an  accident,  or  an  error  of 
ignorance,  rather  than  a  fault  of  the  will,  in  the 
child.  They  would  have  their  children,  and 
servants  too,  perfect  as  angels,  and  enlighten 
them  for  becoming  thus,  from  within  them 
selves,  with  scintillations  of  that  'bright,  particu 
lar  star,'  'Son  of  the  morning!'  They  may 
feel  their  own  weakness  and  insufficiency  to 
direct  young  minds  and  rid  themselves  of  pa 
rental  responsibility,  by  casting  it  with  their 
purse  on  some  vicarious  plenipotentiary. 


THE    HUMMING-BIRD.  295 

They  may  have  been  easy,  and  winked  at  a 
little  sin ;  which  is  said  by  an  old  divine,  to  be 
1  like  a  fine  ribbon  on  a  bird's  leg,'  to  prevent 
the  soul  from  rising,  till  it  grows  in  strength  to 
a  three-fold  cord,  not  easily  broken.  Their 
care  may  have  been  more  for  the  education, 
the  clothing,  and  the  graces  of  the  body,  than 
for  those  of  the  soul.  But  some  how,  in  some 
way,  they  missed  the  right  in  the  beginning ; 
and  all  has  since  been  wrong,  and  themselves 
and  their  children  made  miserable ! 

Such  are  some  of  the  many  ways  in  which 
a  glad  young  spirit,  flying  from  flower  to 
flower,  in  the  dewy  morning  of  its  life,  may 
be  trammeled  in  its  wing,  it  knows  not  how, 
and  brought  down,  perhaps  to  rise  no  more. 

But  there  are  other  phases  of  the  simile ; 
other  impediments  to  upward  or  onward  mo 
tion  may  exist,  when  the  rudiments  of  educa 
tion  have  been  faultless.  Unsuspecting  youth 
may  be  taken  unawares  by  sudden  temptation ; 
and  even  through  some  noble  trait  in  its  na 
ture,  or  some  slip  of  inadvertency,  fall  into  the 
fowler's  snare  and  be  brought  low,  for  the 
want  of  some  minister  of  charity  to  kindly 


296  THE    HUMMING-BIRD. 

loose  its  bond  and  say,  '  Go,  and  wisdom  go 
with  thee,  that  thou  err  no  more ! ' 

It  may  be,  that  some  bright,  aspiring  genius, 
that  would  mount  to  the  empyrean,  and  bless 
the  world  with  its  divine  fire,  caught  from  the 
pure  element  of  the  sun  and  stars,  is  hampered 
and  kept  down  by  pecuniary  embarrassment, 
which  the  fine  sensibilities  of  its  nature  forbid 
it  to  make  known  ;  but  which  is  a  sure  and 
invisible  bondage,  borne  in  silence  and  outward 
serenity,  like  that  of  the  brilliant  humming 
bird;  when  the  liberal-minded,  full-hand  patron 
of  genius  and  friend  of  mankind,  could  re 
move  the  difficulty  as  easily  as  a  cobweb,  and 
would  most  readily  do  so,  could  the  true  state 
of  the  case  be  made  clear. 

It  may  be,  that  native  timidity  and  diffidence 
is  the  tie ;  and  the  richly  endowed  mind  has 
its  priceless,  precious  talents  buried  to  society, 
shut  up  by  fear  and  trembling,  while  a  little 
kindly  influence  alone  is  needed  to  bring  them 
forth  in  peerless  beauty.  Yet,  still  this  spider- 
net  is  bound  about  its  pinion,  as  sure  a  stay  as 
prison  grates,  which  it  may  look  through,  but 
cannot  break  nor  pass. 

The  most  noble,  upright  spirit,  in  the  full 


THE    HUMMING-BIRD.  297 

tide  of  life's  business  concerns,  may  be  sud 
denly  met  by  adverse  winds  of  fortune;  and 
its  bark  be  driven  and  tossed,  here  and  there, 
till  finally  fastened  among  the  rocks  and  shoals, 
where  it  must  remain  helpless,  while  others  go 
by,  white-winged  and  swift,  in  glorious  ca 
reer  ;  unless  some  helping  hands  shall  come 
and  give  it  a  heave,  and  tow  it  into  deep 
water  —  the  humming-bird  untrammeled  in  its 
miniature  similitude. 

But  there  are  countless  ways  in  human  con 
cerns,  in  which  this  little  feathered  biped  may 
be  used  as  a  figure  of  the  lord  of  creation.  As 
such,  it  has  been  constantly  flitting  before  the 
eye  of  my  imagination,  since  the  day  when  I 
found  it,  and  studied  out  its  case.  Now  do  I 
a  second  time  unbind  its  wing,  that  it  may  fly 
away  to  others,  and,  as  a  new  kind  of  carrier- 
bird,  deliver  this,  its  message ;  which  I  hope 
they  will  receive  in  kindness,  and  understand 
aright.  If  it  be  found  to  contain  any  useful 
moral,  to  be  appropriated  to  their  own  use,  my 
end  is  accomplished  and  my  recompense  re 
ceived. 


THE    LINDEN    LEAF, 

FROM  A  TREE 
STANDING  NEAR   SIR    ISAAC    NEWTON'S   DWELLING. 


LEAF  of  the  green  and  shadowy  tree, 

That  guards  the  window  where  the  eye 
Of  NEWTON  once  look  forth,  to  see 

The  glorious  hosts  arrayed  on  high  !  — 
Thy  root  holds  fast  the  distant  sod 

That  gave  his  foot  a  resting-place, 
Untiring,  while  his  spirit  trod 

Ethereal  heights,  the  spheres  to  trace. 

Thou  art  to  me  a  beaming  page  — 

Ay,  volume  !  and  in  radiant  lines, 
The  story  of  a  deathless  Sage 

On  thy  fair,  verdant  surface  shines. 
While  I  peruse  thee  as  a  tome, 

To  fancy's  eye  dear  visions  rise ; 
She  hovers  round  his  earthly  home  — 

She  soars  where  he  surveyed  the  skies. 

I  bend  in  homage  to  the  worth, 

The  power,  the  beauty  of  his  mind, 

That  shows  where'er  it  moved  on  earth 
By  brilliant  tracery  left  behind. 


THE    LINDEN    LEAF. 

And  he,  to  whom  a  falling  frait 

Mysterious  Nature's  problem  solved, 

Unerring,  up  through  space  could  shoot, 
And  span  the  spheres  as  they  revolved. 

As  through  the  solar  world  he  moved, 

Among  its  beaming  mechanism, 
His  lucid  thoughts  at  will,  he  proved 

To  have  the  power  of  lens,  or  prism. 
And  measuring  those  proud  realms  afar, 

With  angel  speed,  and  prophet's  sight, 
He  set  his  foot  from  star  to  star ; 

His  way-marks  were  the  orbs  of  light. 

Yet,  not  alone  for  earth  and  time, 

Did  that  aspiring  spirit  rise  ; 
But,  for  the  science  more  sublime, 

To  bear  the  palm  beyond  the  skies. 
His  soul  with  love  of  Truth  inspired, 

No  rest  in  baser  love  could  find, 
Till  that  vast  mind  divinely  fired, 

Broke  forth  with  light  for  all  mankind. 

He  sought  her,  studying  Nature's  laws, 

And  these  harmonious  proved  to  men  — 
He  traced  her  to  her  great  First  Cause, 

By  prophet's  voice  and  gospel  pen. 
And  she  then  made  so  strong  and  clear 

The  crystal  of  his  telescope, 
It  brought  unearthly  wealth  so  near, 

'T  was  seen  by  Faith,  and  grasped  by  Hope. 

NEWTON  !  to  thee,  where  Truth  unveils 
Her  lovely  image  to  thy  view, 


299 


300  THE    LINDEN    LEAF. 

*    Are  not  the  philosophic  scales 

Thou  here  hast  used,  proved  just  and  true  ? 
Did  not  her  clear,  sweet  accents  tell, 

While  she  bestowed  thy  diadem, 
That  when  that  earthly  apple  fell, 

It  was  her  angel  snapped  the  stem  ?  — 

That  when  she  saw  thy  soul  ascend, 

To  seek  her,  from  the  blushing  fruit, 
She  bade  that  holy  servant  bend 

His  pinion  for  thy  parachute  ? 
To  that  fair  attribute  of  heaven  — 

That  daughter  of  the  King  Most  High, 
When  thy  young  heart  so  soon  was  given, 

She  gave  to  thee  thy  seer's  eye. 

Then  many  a  bright  celestial  hue 

She  to  thy  vision  made  appear, 
Which  others  ne'er  discover  through 

Earth's  dust  and  vapory  atmosphere. 
She  taught  the  fair  analysis 

Of  rays  which  made  thy  spirit  mount, 
Seeking  a  truer  world  than  this, 

Of  light's  pure  streams  to  find  the  fount. 

And  thus,  thy  high  discoveries  made  — 

The  science  so  attained  by  thee, 
Have  made  thy  memory  ne'er  to  fade  — 

Thy  glory  for  eternity. 
'T  is  from  the  freshness  of  the  one 

My  leaf  hath  verdure  not  its  own  ; 
While  from  the  other,  as  a  sun, 

This  radiance  o'er  the  green  is  thrown. 


THE  SARRACENIA  PURPUREA, 


OR      PUEPLE      SIDE-SADDLE      FLOWER. 


THIS  curious  little  child  of  our  North  Amer 
ican  meadows,  derives  its  common  name  from 
a  fancied  resemblance  of  some  of  its  parts  to 
those  of  a  side-saddle.  '  Sarracenia,'  says  a 
writer,  'is  from  its  being  named  after  Dr.  Sar- 
razin,  the  friend  of  Tourneforte.' 

But  this  may,  I  think,  with  equal  propriety, 
be  traced  to  Saracen,  as  its  origin,  from  the 
peculiar  structure  of  the  plant,  as  well  as  its 
orthography.  The  monuments,  or  grave-stones, 
in  the  Moorish  (Saracenic)  burying-grounds, 
have  small  hollows,  or  basins,  scooped  in  them, 
to  catch  the  rain,  that  the  birds  may  come  there 
and  drink.  And,  as  the  etymology  of  Saracen 
may  give  some  interest  to  the  emblematic  sig 
nification  with  which  I  invest  the  flower,  as  it 
relates  to  the  mother  of  the  faithful,  I  will  give 


302       THE  SARRACENIA  PURPUREA. 

it,  at  the  risk  of  its  being  styled  by  some  far 
fetched. 

The  Arabic  professor,  Sabellicus,  informs 
us,  that  Mohammed  was  the  son  of  a  heathen 
father,  and  an  Ishmaelite  mother — a  direct  de 
scendant  of  Hagar.  Yet,  wishing  to  disclaim 
his  descent  from  the  bond-woman,  and  to  es 
tablish  it  as  lineally  from  Sarah  and  Abraham, 
to  give  importance  and  seeming  truth  to  his 
religion,  he  named  himself  and  his  followers, 
1  Saracens]  or  descendants  of  Sarah  ;  while  the 
Greeks,  in  derision,  called  them  Hagarenes, 
as  the  descendants  of  Hagar  are  called  in 
Psalm  Ixxxiii :  6.  This  same  learned  monk, 
Sabellicus,  has  given  a  curious  history  of  the 
pseudo-prophet,  to  which  few,  perhaps,  may 
now  have  access. 

The  flower  which,  as  names  in  the  floral 
kingdom  are  arbitrarily  bestowed,  I  shall  hence 
call  Saracenia,  is,  I  believe,  a  turnsole.  It  has 
been  familiar  to  my  eye  from  earliest  child 
hood  ;  and  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen 
it  face  otherwise  than  toward  the  sun.  It  is  a 
large,  nodding  flower,  externally  of  mixed  pur 
ple  and  green,  that  in  the  sun,  appears  lustrous 
and  changeable,  like  the  plumage  of  the  dove ; 


THE  SARRACENIA  PURPUREA.       303 

but  the  centre  is  of  a  bright  golden  hue.  It 
crowns  a  somewhat  tall,  smooth  cylindric  stem, 
around  the  base  of  which  are  set  the  singularly 
formed  radical  leaves.  These  seem  to  have 
been  originally  cut  after  the  pattern  of  a  plan 
tain,  or  broad  lily-leaf ;  but,  by  an  after-thought 
of  nature,  for  some  especial  purpose,  to  have 
been  each  rolled  up  so  far  as  to  make  the  side- 
edges  meet ;  and  to  have  been  thus  united  to 
gether,  nearly  to  the  top,  so  as  to  form  a  water- 
vessel,  or  can,  bulged  in  the  middle,  open  at 
the  top,  and  with  a  lip  cut  and  turned  out  at 
the  mouth.  Each  of  these  cruses  will  contain 
a  wine-glass  of  water;  and  they  are  never 
empty.  Insects  fly  to  them  as  cisterns ;  and 
the  flower  can  draw  from  them,  though  the 
earth  be  dry  and  the  clouds  yield  no  water. 
The  plant  is  a  beautiful  emblem  of  Faith,  when 
earth  is  dreary,  and  all  visible  prospects  dis 
couraging.  An  anonymous  author  has  a  few 
excellent  lines  on  this  subject,  which  illus 
trate  the  idea  so  finely,  that  they  are  here  bor 
rowed. 

'  Fear  not ,  —  thy  cruse  of  oil,  it  shall  not  fail ! 
One  greater  than  Elijah  sittcth  here, 
Though  poverty's  grim  stare  and  iron  face 


304 


THE  SARRACENIA  PURPUREA. 


Hedge  thee  around.    Thy  cruse  shall  not  decrease, 

Nor  barrel  waste  :  the  sun  is  then  most  near, 

When  hid  in  winter ;  and  the  bow  of  peace 

Binds  the  dark  cloud.    For  all  to  him  are  dear  — 

The  king  who  sits  in  golden  palaces, 

The  bird  that  sings  in  winter's  hoary  tress  : 

He  is  all-infinite  —  greater  and  less 

In  Him  are  not ;  but,  as  the  helpless  child 

Doth  to  the  yearning  mother  dearer  prove, 

Them  to  himself  he  hath  the  nearest  styled, 

Who  have  on  earth  no  blessing  but  his  Love.' 


I 


